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I'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 



A 



rhi 



Letters of Ambrose Bierce 



EDITED BY 



Bertha Clark Pope 

WITH A MEMOIR BY 

George Sterling 




San Francisco 

The Book Club of California 

1922 



In reproducing these letters we have followed as nearly as possible the original 
manuscripts. This inevitably has caused a certain lack of uniformity through- 
out the volume, as in the case of the names of magazines and newspapers, which 
are sometimes italicized and sometimes in quotation marks. — The Editor. 



COPYRIGHT, I 92 2, BY THE CALIFORNIA BOOK CLUB 



Del A7 0508 4 



The IntroduSiion 

by Bertha Clark Pope 



The Introdu6lion 

by Bertha Clark Pope 



T 



■^ H E question that starts to the lips of ninety-nine read- 
ers out of a hundredy ' ' says Arnold Be?inett, in a re- 
view in the London New Age in igog^^^even the 
best informed, will assuredly be: * Who is Ambrose Bier ce? ' 
I scarcely know, but I will say that among what I may term 
^underground reputations' that of Ambrose Bierce is per- 
haps the most sti'iking example. You may wander for years 
through literary circles and never meet anybody who has 
heard of Ambrose Bierce , and then you may hear some eru- 
dite student whisper in an awed voice: ^Ambrose Bierce is 
the greatest living prose writer.' I have heard such an opin- 
ion expressed.'' 

Bierce himself shows his recognitio?i ofthe^Hinderground" 
quality of his reputation in a letter to George Sterling: '■'■How 
many times, and during a period of how many years must 
one's unexplainable obscurity be pointed out to constitute 
fame ? Not knowing, lam almost disposed to consider ?7iy- 
selfthe most famous of authors. I have pretty nearly ceased 
to be ^ discovered^ but my 7iotoriety as an obscurian may be 
said to be worldwide and everlasting." 

Anything which would throw light on such afigure, at once 



VI 



The Introdudion 



obscure and famous^ is valuable. 'These letters of Ambrose 
Bierce^ here printed for the first time^ are therefore of unu- 
sual interest. They are the informal literary work — the term 
is used advisedly — of a man esteejned great by a stnall but 
acutely critical group, read enthusiastically by a sotnewhat 
larger number to whoni critical examination of what they 
readseldo?n occurs, and ignored by the vast majority of read- 
ers; a man at once more hated and more adored than any on 
the Pacific Coast; a man not ten years off the scene yet already 
become a tradition and a legend; whose life, no less than his 
death,held elements of?nystery,bafiling contradictions, prob- 
lems for puzzled conjecture, tnotives and meanings not 
vouchsafed to outsiders. 

Were Ambrose Bierce as well known as he deserves to be, 
the introduction to these letters could be slight; we should not 
have to stop to inquire who he was and what he did. As it is, 
we must. 

Ambrose Bierce, the son of Marcus Aure litis and Laura 
( Sherwood^ Bie7xe, born in Meiggs County, Ohio, yune 24, 
1842, was at the outbreak of the Civil War a youth with- 
out formal education,butwith a mind already trained.'-^ My 
father was a poor farmer,^' he once said to a friend, '■^and 
could give me no general education, but he had a good libra- 
ry, and to his books I owe all that I have !' He promptly vol- 
unteered in 18 6 1 and served throughout the war. Twice, at 
the risk of his life, he rescuedwounded companions from the 
battlefield, andatKenesaw Mountain was hiinself severely 
wounded in the head. He was brevetted Major for distin- 



The Introdudiion 



Vll 



guished services , but in after life never permitted the title to 
be used in addressing him. There is a story that when the war 
was over he tossedup a coin to determine what should be his 
career. Whatever the determining auguries, he came at once 
to San Francisco to join his favorite brother Albert — there 
were ten brothers and sisters to choose from — andforashort 
time worked with him in the Mint; he soon began writing 
paragraphs for the weeklies ^particularly the Argonaut 
and the News Letter. 

*^Iwas a slovenly writer in those days,' he observes in a 
letterforty years later, ^^ though enough better than my neigh- 
bors to have attracted my own attention. My knowledge of 
English was imperfect ^a whole lot.' Indeed, my intellectual 
status (whatever it may be, and God knows it's enough to 
make me blush^ was of slow growth — as was my moral. I 
mean, I had not literary sincerity.'' Apparently, attention 
other than his own was attracted, for he was presently edit- 
ing the N E ws Letter. 

In i8j2 he went to London and for four years was on the 
staff of ¥\j^ . In London Bierce found congenial and stimu- 
lating associates. The great man of his circle was George 
Augustus Sala,^^one of the most skilful,finished journalists 
ever known," a keen satiric wit, and the author of a ballad of 
which it is said that Swift might have been proud. Another 
not able figure was ToniHood the younger, mordantly humor- 
ous. The satiric style in journalism was popular then; and 
''^ personal" journals were so personal that one^^'fiminy" 
Davis, editor of the Cuckoo and the Bat successively. 



Vlll 



The Introduction 



found it healthful to reinain so?ne years in exile in France. 
Bierce contributed to several of these and to Figaro, M^ 
editor of which was "James Mortimer. To this gentleman 
Bierce owed what he designated as the distinction of being 
'■^probably the only American journalist who was ever em- 
ployed by an Ejinpress in so co?2genial a pursuit as the pur- 
suit of another journalist." This other journalist was M. 
Henri Rochefort^ communard formerly editor ofl^A Lan- 
TERNE /Vz Paris, in which he had made incessant war upon 
the Ejmpire and all its personnel, particularly the impress. 
When, an exile, Rochefort announced his intention of re- 
newing La Lantern e in London, the exiled E??ipress 
circumvented him by secretly copyrighting the title,Tii'£. 
Lantern, and proceeding to publish a periodical under 
that name with the purpose of undermining his influence. 
Two numbers were enough; M. Rochefort fled to Belgiu?n. 
Bierce said that in *^the field of chromatic journalism'' it 
was the finest thing that ever camefro?n a press, but of the 
literary excellence of the twelve pages he felt less qualified 
for judgment as he had written every li?ie. 

This was in 18J4. Two years earlier, uiider his journal- 
istic pseudonym of^^DodGrileJ'he had published his first 
books — two small volumes, largely made up of his articles 
in the San Francisco News Letter, ^^//(?^The Fiend's 
Delight, ^;Z(^ Nuggets And Dust Panned Out In Cali- 
fornia. A^<5'i£?,/^^ usedthe same pseudonym on the title-page of 
a third volume. Cobwebs from an Empty Skull. The 
Cobwebs were selections from his work inFvN — satirical 



The Introduction 



IX 



tales and fables, of ten inspired by weird old woodcuts given 
him by the editors with the request that he write something 
toft. His journalistic associates praisedthese volumes liber- 
ally, and a tnore distinguished admirer was Gladstone, who, 
discovering the Cobwebs in a second-hand bookshop, voiced 
his delight in their cleverness, and by his praise gave a cer- 
tain currency toBierce's name among the London elect. But 
despite so distinguished a sponsor, the books remained gen- 
erally unknown. 

Congenial tasks and association with the brilliant jour al- 
ists of the day did not prevent Bierce from being undeniably 
hard up at times. In iSjd he retur?ted to San Francisco, 
where he remained for twenty-one years, save for a brief 
but eventful career as general manager of a mining com- 
pany ?iearDeadwood, South Dakota. All this time he got his 
living by writing special articles— for the^ A'$,v , a weekly 
whose general tetnper may be accurately surmised from its 
name, and, beginning in 1886, for the Exam i n e r, z/z which 
he conducted every Sunday on the editorial page a depart- 
ment to which he gave the title he had used for a similar col- 
umn in The Lantern — Prattle. A partial explanation 
of a mode of feeling and a choice of themes which Bierce de- 
veloped more and more, ulti?nately to the pratical exclusion 
of all others, is to be found in the particular phase through 
which California journalism was just then passing. 

In the evolution of the cotnic spirit the lowest stage, that of 
delight in inflictingpain on others, is clearly manifest in sav- 
ages , small boy s , and early American j0urnalis7n.It was ex- 



The Introduction 



hibitedin all parts of America — Mark Twain gives a vivid 
example in -^/"j- Journalistic Wild Oats of what it was in 
Tennessee — butwith particular intensity in SanFrancisco. 
As a community J San Francisco exalted personal courage, 
directness of encounter, straight and effective shooting. The 
social group was so small and so homogeneous that any news 
ofijnportance would be well known beforeit could bereported, 
set up in type, printed, and circulated. It was isolated by so 
great distances from the rest of the world that for years no 
pretense was made of furnishing adequate news from the 
out side. So the newspapers came to rely on other sorts of in- 
ter est. They were pamphlets for the disseminationofthe opin- 
ions of the groups controlling thetn, and weapons for doing 
battle, if need be, for those opinions. And there was abun- 
dant occasion : municipal affairs were cot^rupt, courts weak 
or venal, or both. Editors and readers enjoyed a good fight; 
they also wanted humorous entertainment; they happily com- 
binedthetwo.In the creative dawnof 1 8 4Jwhenthe founda- 
tions of the journalistic earth were laid and those two morn- 
ing stars, the Californian of Monterey and the Cali- 
fornia Star of San Francisco, sang together , we find the 
editors attacking the comiJiunity generally, and each other 
particularly, with the utinost ferocity, laying about them 
right and left with verbal broad-axes , crow-bars, and such 
other weapons as might be immediately at hand. The C al- 
IFORNIA Star's introduction to the public of what would, 
in our less direct day, be known as its ^^ esteemed contempo- 
rary"" is typical: 



The Introdudion xi 

'^'■We have received two late numbers of the Californian,^ 
dim^dirty little paper printed in Monterey on the worn-out ma- 
terials of one of the old Calif orniawAK presses.// is published 
and edited by Walter Colton and Robert Semple,the one a whin- 
ing SYCOPHANT, and the other an over-grown lick-spit- 
tle, y// the top of one of the papers we find the words^ please ex- 
change 'T^his would be considered in almost any other country a 
barefaced attempt to swindle us. We should consider it so now 
were it not for the peculiar situation of our country which in- 
duces us to do a great deal for others in order for them to do us a 
little good. . . . We have concluded to give our paper to them this 
year, so as to afford them some insight into the manner in which 
a Republican newspaper should be conducted. They appear now 
to be awfully verdant.'' 

Down through the seventies and eighties the tradition per- 
sisted, newspapers being bought and read, as a historian of 
journalism asserts, ?iot so much for news as to see who was 
getting^*- lambasted'' that day. It is not strange, then, that 
journals of redoubtable pugnacity were popular, or that edt- 
torsfavored writers who were likely to excel in the gladia- 
torial style. It is significant that public praise first came to 
Bierce through his articles in the caustic News Letter, 
widely read on the Pacific Coast during the seventies. Once 
launched in this line, he beca?7ie locally famous for his fierce 
and witty articles in //^d- Argon aut andtheS^ A.?,Y,andfor 
many years his column Prattle in the Ex am i N e r was, in the 
words of Mr. Bailey Millard,^Hhe most wickedly clever, the 
most audaciously personal, and the most eagerly devoured 
column of c'SiWSt.viQ that ever was printed i?! this country." 



Xll 



The Introdudion 



In i8g6 Bierce was sent to Washington to jight, through 
the Hearst newspapers ^t he ^^ refunding bill'' which Col lis 
P. Huntington was trying to get passed^releasing his Cen- 
tral Pacific Railroad from its obligations to the gov eminent, 
A year later he went again to W ashington, where he re- 
mained during the rest of his journalistic career, as corres- 
pondent for the New York American, conducting also for 
sotne years a department in the Cosmopolitan. 

Much ofBterces best work was done in those years in San 
Francisco. 'Through the columns oftheV^lA^v and the Ex- 
aminer his wit played free ; he wielded an extraordinary 
influence ; his trenchant criticism made and unmade repu- 
tations — literary and otherwise. But this to Bierce was most- 
ly^^joumalistn, a thing so low that it can?iot be meiitionedin 
the same breath with literature .'' His real interest lay else- 
where. Throughout the early eighties he devoted himself to 
writing stories; all were rejected by the magazine editors to 
whom he offered the?n. When finally in 1 8 go he gathered 
these stories together into book form and offered them to the 
leading publishers of the country , they too, would have none 
of them . * * These men,' ' writes Mr. Bailey Millard, ' ' admit- 
ted the purity of his diction and the magic of his haunting 
power, but the stories were regarded as revolting." 

At last, in l8gi, his first book of stories ^2X^^ of Soldiers 
and Civilians, j-/rzi£) the reluctant light of day. It had this for 
foreword: 

^^Denied existence by the chief publishing houses of the country, 
this book owes itself toMr.E.L. G. Steele, merchant, of this city. 



The Introduction 



xin 



[San Francisco]. In attesting Mr. Steele s faith in his judgment 
and his friend^it will serve its author s main and best ambition!^ 

Inhere is Bier ce an pugnacity in these words; the author 
jimgs down the gauntlet with a confident gesture. But it 
cannot be said that anything much happened to discomfit 
the publishing houses of little faith. Apparently ^Bierce had 
thought to appeal past the dull and u?2Just verdict of such 
lower courts to the higher tribunal of the critics and possibly 
an elect group of general readers who might be expected to 
recognize and welco??ie something rare. But judgment was 
scarcely reversed. Only a few critics were discerning, and 
the book had no vogue. When The Monk and the Hang- 
man's Daughter was published by F. f.Schulte and Com- 
pany, Chicago, the next year, and Can Such Things Be by 
The C as sell Publishing Company, the year following, a few 
enthusiastic critics couldfindno words strong enough to de- 
scribe Bierce's vivid imagination, his uncanny divination 
of atavistic terrors in man s co?isciousness, his chiseled per- 
fection of style; but the critics who disapproved had even 
more trouble in finding words strong enough for their pur- 
poses and, as before, there was no geiieral appreciation. 

For the next twenty years Ambrose Bierce was a prolific 
writer but, whatever the reason, no further volumes of sto- 
ries from his pen were presented to the world. Black Beetles 
in Amber, a collection of satiric verse, had appeared the 
j-^/T^fj/^^^r^j- The Monk and the Hangman's Daughter; 
then for seven years, with the exception of a republication 
/^j/ G.P.P?^/^^//?' J- aSo;^ J- (9/"Tales of Soldiers and Civilians 



XIV 



The Introduction 



under the title,\n the Midst of Life, ;zo books by Bierce. 
In l8gg appeared ¥2int2iS.tic Fables; in I go J Shapes of 
Clay, more satiric 'verse; in igo6 The Cynic's Word 
^oo\i, a dictionary of wicked epigrams; in /^c^ Write it 
Right, a blacklist of literary faults^ and The Shadow on 
the Dial, a collection of essays covering, to quote from the 
preface ofS. O . Howes, " ^ wide range of subjects, embrac- 
ing among other things, government, dreams, writers of dia- 
lect and dogs" — Mr. Howes might have heightened his cres- 
cendo by adding^^emancipatedwoman' ; and finally — igog 
to igi2 — The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce, 
containing all his work previously published in book form., 
save the two last mentioned, and much more besides, all col- 
lected and edited by Bierce hi7nself. 

On October 2, igijy Ambj-ose Bierce, having settled his 
business affairs, I eft Washingtonfor a trip through the south- 
ern states, declaringin letters his purpose of going into Mex- 
ico and later on to South A ?n eric a. The fullest account of his 
trip and his plans is afforded by a newspaper clipping he 
sent his niece i?i a letter dated Novetnber 6,1 gi J; through 
the commonplaceness of the reportorialvocabulary shines out 
the vivid personality that was making its final exit: 

" 'Traveling over the same ground that he had covered with 
General Hazens brigade during the CivillVar,AmbroseBierce, 
famed writer and noted critic, has arrived in New Orleans. Not 
that this city was one of the places figuring in his campaigns, for 
he was here after and not during the war. He has come to New 
Orleans in a haphazard, fancy free way, making a trip toward 



The Introdudiion 



XV 



Mexico. 'The places thai he has visile don the way down have be- 
come famous in song and story— places where the greatest battles 
were fought ^where the moon shone at night on the burial corps., 
and where in day the sun shone bright on polished bayonets and 
the smoke drifted upward from the cannon mouths. 

'■^ For Mr. Bier ce was at Chickamauga; he was at Shiloh; at 
Murfreesboro; Kenesaw Mountain., Franklin and Nashville. 
And then when wounded during the Atlanta campaign he was 
invalided home. He '■has never amounted to much since then^ he 
said Saturday. But his stories of the great struggle, living as 
deathless characterizations of the bloody episodes,standforwhat 
he ^has amounted to since then.' 

^'■Perhaps it was in mourning for the dead over whose battle- 
fields he has been wending his way toward New Orleans that 
Mr.Bierce was dressed in black. From head to foot he was 
attired in this color, except where the white cuffs and collar 
and shirt front showed through. He even carried a walking 
cane, black as ebony and unrelieved by gold or silver. But his 
eyes, blue and piercing as when they strove to see through the 
smoke at Chickamauga, retained all the fire of the indomitable 
fighter. 

" '■Fm on my way to Mexico, because I like the game ^ he said, 
^ I like the fighting; I want to see it. And then Idont think Amer- 
icans are as oppressed there as they say they are, and I want to 
get at the true facts of the case. Of course, Fm not going into the 
country if I find it unsafe for Americans to be there, but I want to 
take a trip diagonally across from northeast to southwest by 
horseback, and then take ship for South America, go over the 
Andes and across that continent, if possible, and come back to 
America again. 

" ' There is no family that I have to take care of; Fve retired 
from writing and Fm going to take a rest. No, my trip isntfor 



XVI 



The Introduction 



local color. Fve retired just the same as a merchant or business 
man retires. Fm leaving the field for the younger authors.' 

^'•An inquisitive question was interjected as to whether Mr. 
Bierce had acquired a competency only from his writings^ but he 
did not take offense. 

" '■My wants are few ^ and modest^ he saidy'-and my royalties 
give me quite enough to live on. 'There isn't much that I need, 
and I spend my time in quiet travel. For the last five years I 
haven t done any writing.Don t you think that after a man has 
worked as long as I have that he deserves a rest? But perhaps 
after I have rested I might work some more— lean t tell, there 
are so many things— and the straightforward blue eyes took on 
a far away look, ' there are so many things that might happen be- 
tween now and when I come back. My trip might take several 
years, and I'm an old man now.' 

'•'■Except for the thick,snow-white hair no one would think him 
old. His hands are steady, and he stands up straight and tail- 
perhaps six feet." 

In Deceffiher of that same year the last letter he is known 
to have written was received by his daughter. It is dated 
frojn Chihuahua, and mentions casually that he has at- 
tached himself unoficially to a division of Villa's army, and 
speaks of a prospective advance on Ojinaga. No further 
word has ever come from or of Ambrose Bterce. Whether 
illness overtook him, then an old man of seventy-one, and 
death suddenly, or whether, preferring to go foaming over 
a precipice rather than to straggle out in sandy deltas, he 
deliberately went where he k?iew death was, no one can say. 
His last letters, dauntless, grave, tender, do not say, though 
they suggest much. ^^Tou inust try to forgive my obstinacy 



The Introduction xvii 

in not 'perishing' where I am^' he wrote as he left Wash- 
ington. '■'■Iwant to be where something worth while is going 
on, or where nothing whatever is going onT ** Good-bye — 
if you hear of my being stood up against a Mexican stone 
wall and shot to rags please know that I think that a pretty 
good way to depart this life. It beats old age, disease, or fall- 
ing down the cellar stairs. To be a Gringo in Mexico — ah, 
that is euthanasia / ' ' Whatever end Ambrose Bier ce found 
in Mexico, the lines of George Sterling well express what 
must have been his attitude in meeting it: 

''Dream you he was afraid to live? 

Dream you he was afraid to die? 

Or that, a suppliant of the sky. 
He begged the gods to keep or give? 
Not thus the shadow-maker stood, 

Whose scrutiny dissolved so well 

Our thin mirage of H even or Hell— 
"The doubtful evil, dubious good. . . . 

"If now his name be with the dead. 

And where the gaunt agaves flow'r, 

I'he vulture and the wolf devour 
The lion-heart, the I ion- he ad. 
Be sure that heart and head were laid 

In wisdom down, content to die; 

Be sure he faced the Starless Sky 
Unduped, unmurmuring, unafraid.'' 

In any consideration of the work of Ambrose Bierce, a cen- 
tral question must be why it contains so much that is trivial 
or ephemeral. Another questionfacing every critic of Bierce, 



XVlll 



The Introduction 



is why the fundament ally original point of view ^t he clarity 
of workmanship of his best things — mainly stories — did not 
win him im?nediate and general recognition. 

A partial answer to both questions is to be found in a cer- 
tain discord between Bierce and his setting. Bier ce, para- 
doxically, cojnbined the bizarre in substance, the severely 
restrained and compressedin form . An ironic mask covered 
a deep-seated sensibility ; but sensibility and irony were alike 
subject to an uncoitipromising truthfulness; he would have 
given deep-throated acclaim to Clouglis 

'■^ But play no tricks upon thy soul, O man. 
Let truth be truth, and life the thing it can." 

He had the aristocrat' s conte?nptfor 7nass feeling, a selec- 
tiveness carried so far that he instinctively chose for themes 
the picked per son and experience, the one decisive moment of 
crisis. He viewed his characters not in relation to other men 
and in normal activities ; he isolated them — often amid ab- 
normalities. 

All this was in sha7-p contrast to the literary fashion ob- 
taining when he dipped his pen to try his luck as a creative 
artist. The most popular novelist of the day was Dickens; 
the most popular poet, Tennyson. Neither looked straight at 
life; both veiled it: one in benevolence, the other in beauty. 
Direct and painful verities were best tolerated by the read- 
ing public when exhibited as instances of the workings of 
natural law. The spectator of the macrocosm in action could 
stomach thewanton destruction of a given human atom; one 
so privileged could and did excuse the Creator for small mis- 



The Introdudion 



XIX 



takes like harrying Hetty Sorrel I to the gallow sfoot^ be- 
cause of the conviction that^ taking the Universe by and 
large^ ^^He was a goodfellow, arid 'twould all be welly 
This beiievolent optimism was the offspring of a strange 
pair, evangelicism and evolution; and in the minds of the 
great public whom Bierce, under other circumstances and 
with a slightly different mixture of qualities in himself 
might have conquered^ it beca?ne a large^ soft insincerity 
that demanded ^^ happy endings^'' a profuse broadness of 
treatment prohibitive of harsh simplicity, a swathing of 
elemental emotion in gentility or tnoral edification. 

But to Bierce' s mind, ^^ noble and nude and antique^' this 
mid- Victorian draping and bedecking of " unpleasant 
truths'' was abhorrent. Absolutely direct and unafraid — 
not only in his personal relations but, what is more rare, in 
his thinking — he regarded easy optimism, sure that God is 
in his heaven with consequently good effects upon the world, 
as blindness, and the hopefulness that demanded always 
the *■*■ happy ending," as silly. In many significant passages 
Bierce's attitude is the ironic one of Voltaire: " ^ Had not 
Pangloss got himself hanged,' replied Candide, ^lie would 
have given us most excellent advice in this emergency; for 
he was a profound philosopher.' " Bierce did not fear to bring 
in disconcerting evidence that a priori reasoning may prove 
a not infallible guide , that causes do not always produce the 
effects complacently pre- argued, and that the notion of this 
as the best of all possible worlds is sometimes beside the point. 

The themes permitted by such an attitude were certain to 



XX 



The Introduction 



displease the readers of that period. In Tales of Soldiers 
and Civilians, his first book of stories, he looks squarely and 
gi'imly at one much bedecked subject of the time — war; not 
the fine gay gallantry of war, the music and the march- 
ing and the romantic episodes, but the ghastly horror of it; 
through his vivid,draf?iatic passages beats a hatred of war, 
not merely ^^unrighteous'' war, but all war, the more dis- 
quieting because fiever allowed to become articulate. With 
bitter but beautiful truth he brings each tale to its tragic 
close, always with one last turn of the screw, one unexpected 
horror more. And in this book — note the solemn implication 
of the title he later gave it. In the Midst of Life — as well 
as in the next. Can Such Things Be, is still another sub- 
ject which Bierce alone in his generation seemed unafraid 
to consider curiously: '■'•Death, in warfare and in the horrid 
guise of the super?tatural,was painted over and over. Man s 
terror in the face of death gave the artist his cue for his won- 
derful physic aland psychologic microscopies. Tou could not 
pin this work down as realism, or as romance; it was the 
greatest human drama— the conflict between life and death- 
fused through genius. Not Zola, in the endless pages of his 
Deh2Lc\Q,not the great Tolstoi in his great W^lt and Peace 
had ever paintedwar, horridwar, more faithfully than any 
of the stories of this book; not Maupassant had invented out 
of war s terrible truths more dramatically imagiried plots. 
. . . There painted an artist who had seen the thing itself 
and being a genius, had made it an art still greater. 
Death of the young, the beautiful, the brave, was the clos- 



The Introduction 



XXI 



mg note of every line of the ten stories of war in this book. 
The brilliant^ spectacular death that came to such senseless 
bravery asTennyson hymned for the music-hall intelligence 
in his Charge of the Light Brigade; the vision-starting, 
slow, soul-drugging death by hanging; the multiplied, com- 
prehensible death that makes rivers near battlefields run 
red; the death that comes by sheer terror; death actual and 
iinagined — every sort of death was o?i these pages, so painted 
as to make Pierre Loti's Book of Pity and Death see?n 
but feeble fumbling. 

Now death by the mid-Victorian was considered almost 
as undesirable an element in society as sex itself. Both must 
be passed over in silence or presented decently draped. In 
the eighties any writer who dealt unabashed with death 
was regarded as an unpleasant person. ^^KevoltingV cried 
the critics when they read Bierce's Chickamauga and 
The Affair at Couher's Notch. 

Bierce' s style, too, by its very fineness, alienated his public. 
Superior, keen, perfect in detail, finite, compressed — such 
was his manner in the free and easy, prolix, rambling, mul- 
titudinous 7iineteentli century. 

Bierce himself knew that although it is always the fashion 
to jeer at fashion, its rule is absolute for all that, whether 
it be fashion in boots or books. 

^^A correspondent of mine,'' he wrote in 1 88 J in Ins Ex- 
aminer column, "<2 well-known and clever writer, appears 
surprised because I do not like the work of Robert Louts 
Stevenson. lam equally hurt to know that he does. If he was 



XXll 



The Introduction 



ever a boy he k?iows that the year is divided, not into seasons 
and ?no?iths, as is vulgarly supposed, but into * top time,' 
^ fnai'ble time,' ^ kite time,' et cetera, and woe to the boy 
who ignores the unwritten calendar, amusing himself ac- 
cording to the dictates of an irresponsible conscience. I ven- 
ture to remind my correspondent that a somewhat similar 
system obtains in matters of literature — awordwhich I beg 
him to observe means fiction. 'There are, for illustration — 
or rather, there were — fames time. How ells time , Crawford 
time, Russell time and Conway tifne, each epoch — named for 
the immortal novelist of the time being — lasting, generally 

speaking, as much as a year All the niore rigorous is the 

law of observance. It is not permitted to admire f ones in 
Smith time. I must point out to my heedless correspondent 
that this is not Stevenson time — that was last year'. ' It was 
decidedly not Bierce time when Bierce's stories appeared. 

And there was in him 7io compromise — or so he thought. 
^'^ A great artist^' he wrote to George Sterling, ^Hs superior 
to his world arid his time, or at least to his parish and his 
day." Mis practical applicatio?! of that belief is shown in a 
letter to a magazine editor who had just rejected a satire he 
had submitted: 

* * Ejven you ask for literature — if my stories are literature, 
as you are good enough to imply. ( By the way, all the leading 
publishers of the countjy turned down that book until they 
saw it published without them by a merchant in San Fran- 
cisco and another sort of publishers in London, Leipsic and 
Paris.") Well, you wouldn't do a thing to one of my stories! 



The Introduction 



XXlll 



'■^ Noythank you;ifI have to write rot ,1 prefer to do it for 
the newspapers, which make no false pretenses and are 
frankly rott en y and in which the badness of a bad thing es- 
capes detection or is forgotten as soo?i as it is cold. 

'■'■I know how to write a story (^of"- happy ending sort^for 
magazine readers for whom literature is too good, but I will 
not do so, so long as stealing is more honorable andinteresting. 
I have offered you .... the best that I am able to make; and 
now you must excuse me.'' In these two utterances we have 
some clue to the secret of his having ceased, in l8g J, to pub- 
lish stories. Vigorously refusing to yield in the slightest de- 
gree to the public so far as his stories were concerned, he 
abandoned his bestfield of creative effort and became almost 
exclusively a'-^ colunmisf and a satirist; he put his world to 
rout, and left his *■'■ parish and his day'' resplendently the 
victors. 

All this ??just not be taken to mean that t he ^ form and 
pressure of the time" put into Bierce what was not there. 
Even in his creative work he had a satiric bent; his early 
training and associations, too, had been in journalistic sa- 
tire. Under any circumstances he undoubtedly would have 
written satire — columns of it for his daily bread, books of 
tt for self-expression ; but under more favorable circum- 
stances he would have kept on writing other sort of books 
as well. Lovers of literature may well lament that Bierce' s 
insistence on going his way and the demands of his ' ^parish 
forced him to overdevelop one power to the almost co?nplete 
paralysis of another and a perhaps finer. 



XXIV 



The Introduction 



As a satirist Btei'ce was the best America has produced, 
perhaps the best since Volt aire. But when he confined him- 
self to " exploring the ways of hate as afonn of creative en- 
ergy^^ it was with a hurt in his soul, and with-some intel- 
lectual and spiritual confusion. Inhere resulted a kink in his 
nature, a contradiction that appears repeatedly, not only in 
his life, but in his writiiigs. A striking instance is found in 
his article To Train a Writer : 

"//(? should, for example, forget that he is an American and 
remember that he is a man. He should be neither Christian nor 
Jew, nor Buddhist, nor Mahometan, nor Snake Worshiper. 'To 
local standards of right and wrong he should be civilly indifferent. 
In the virtues, so-called, he should discern only the rough notes 
of a general expediency ; infixedmoralprinciples only time-saving 
predecisions of cases not yet before the court of conscience. Hap- 
piness should disclose itself to his enlargingintelligence as the end 
and purpose of life; art and love as the only means to happiness. 
He should free himself of all doctrines, theories, etiquettes, poli- 
tics, simplifying his life and mind, attaining clarity with breadth 
andunity with height. To him a continent shouldnot seem widenor 
a century long. And it would be needful that he know and have 
an ever-present consciousness that this is a world of fools and 
rogues, blind with superstition, tormented with envy, consumed 
with vanity, selfish, false, cruel, cursed with illusions— frothing 
mad! " 

Up to that last sentence Ambrose Bierce beholds this world 
as o?ie where tolerance, breadth of view, simplicity of life 
and mind, clear thinking, are at most attainable, at least 
worthy of the effort to attain; he regards life as purposive, 
as having happiness for its efid, and art and love as the 



The Introduction 



XXV 



means to that good end. But suddenly the string from which 
he has been evoking these broad harmonies snaps with a 
snarl. All is evil and hopeless — frothing mad. " Both views 
cannot be held si^nultaneously by the same mind. Which was 
the real belief of A?nbroseBie7xe ? T^heformer^it seems clear. 
But he has been hired to be a satirist. 

On the original fabric ofBierce's mind the satiric strand 
has encroached more than the design allows. Inhere results 
not only cojisiderable obliteration of the main design, but 
confusion in the substituted one. For it is significant that 
much of the work of Bier ce seems to be that of what he would 
have called a futilitarian,that heseldojns seems able to find 
a suit able field for his satire, afoeman worthy of such per- 
fect steel as he brings to the encounter; he fights on all fields, 
on both sides, against all comers ; ubiquitous , indiscrimi- 
nate, he is as one who screams in pain at his own futility, 
one who '■^tnight be hear d^' as he says of our civilization, 
^^from afar in space as a scolding and a riot. ' ' Tl'hat Bierce 
would have spent so ?nuch of his superb power on the trivial 
and the ephemeral, breaking magnificent vials of wrath on 
Oakland nobodies, preserving insignificant black beetles in 
the amber of his art, is not merely, as it has long been, cause 
of amazement to the critics ; it is cause of laughter to the 
gods, and of weeping among Bierce' s true admirers. 

Some may argue that Bierce' s failure to attain interna- 
tional or even national fame cannot be ascribed solely to a 
lack of concord between the man and his time and to the con- 
sequent reaction in him. It is true that in Bierce s work is a 



XXVI 



The Introdudion 



soj't of paucity — not a 7nere lack of prmted pages, but of the 
fulness of creative activity that makesByj'onfor exa?nple, 
though vulgar and casual, a literary mountain peak. Bier ce 
has but few thefnesfew moods; his literary river rims clear 
and sparkling, but confined — a narrow current, not the opu- 
lent stream that waters wide plains of thought and fee ling. 
Nor has Bierce the power to weave individual entities a?td 
situations into a broad pattern of existence, which is the dis- 
tinguishing ?nark of such writers as 'Thackeray, Balzac, 
and Tolstoi among the great dead, and Bennett and Wells 
among the lesser living. Bierce' s interest does ?iot lie in the 
group experience nor even in the experienceof the individual 
through a long period. His unit of time is the ininute, not the 
month. It is significant that he never wrote a novel — unless 
The Monk and the Hangman's Daughter be reckoned 
one — and that he held remarkable views of the ttovel as a 
literary for /n, witness this passage from Prattle, written in 
1887: 

'■'^English novelists are not great because the English novel is 
dead— deader thanQueen Anne ather deadest. Theveinis worked 
out. It was a thin one anddidnof'go down.' A single century from 
the time when Richardson sank the discovery shaft it had al- 
ready begun to'^ pinch out. ' The miners of today have abandoned 
it altogether to search for ^pockets,' and some of the best of them 
are merely^ chloriding the dumps' To expect another good novel 
in English is to expect the gold to' grow' again." 

It may well be that at the bottom of this sweeping con- 
demnation was an instinctive recognition of his own lack 
of constructive power on a large scale. 



The Introduction 



XXVll 



But an artist, like a nation, should be judged ?iot by what 
he cannot do, but by what he can. 1^ hat Bier ce could not paint 
the large canvas does not make him negligible or even incon- 
siderable. He is by no jneans a second-rate writer; he is a 
jirst-rate writer who could not consistently show hisjirst- 
rateness. 

When he did show hisfirst-rateness, what is it ? In all his 
best work there is originality , a rare and precious tdtosyn- 
cracy; his poi?it of view, his themes are rich with it. Above 
all writers Bierce can present — b?'illia?itly present — start- 
ling fragments of life, carved out from attendant circum- 
stance; isolated problems of character and action; shajply 
bitten etchings of individual men under momentary stresses 
and in bizarre situations. Through his prodigious emotional 
perceptivity he has the power of feeling and making us feel 
some strange, perverse accident of fate, destructive of the 
individual — of making us feel it to be real and terrible. 
This is not an easy thing to do. Tie Maupassant said that 
men were killed every year in Paris by thefalliiig of tiles 
from the roof, but if he got rid of a principal character in 
that way, he should be hooted at. Bierce can make us accept 
as valid and tragic events more odd than the one de Mau- 
passant had to reject. ^^In the line of the startling, — half 
P oe, half M crime e — he cannot have many superiors y says 

Arnold Bennett ^''A story like An Occurrence at 

Owl Creek Bridge — well, Edgar Allan Poe might have 
deigned to sign it. And that is something. 

" He possesses a remarkable style — what Kipling's would 



XXVlll 



The Introduction 



have been had Kipling been born with any signijicance of the 
word^arf — and a quite strangely remarkable per ception of 
beauty. There is a feeling for landscape in A Horseman in 
the Sky which recalls the exquisite opening of that indif- 
ferent Jtovel^ Les Freres Zemganno by Kdinond de Gon- 
court, and which no English novelist exceptThomas Hardy, 
and possibly Charles Marriott^couldmatch." The fee ling for 
landscape which Bennett notes is but one part of a greater 
power — the power to make concrete and visible, action, per- 
son, place. Bierce s desc?'iptions of Civil War battles in his 
Bits of Autobiography are the best descriptions of battle 
ever written. He lays out the field with map-like clearness, 
marshals men and events with precision and econojny, but 
his account never becomes exposition — it is drama. Real 
battles move swiftly; accounts make them seem labored and 
slow. What narrator save Bierce can convey the sense of 
their being lightly swift, and, again and again the shock of 
surprise the event itself must have given? 

This could not be were it not for his verbal restraint. In 
his desci'iptions is no welter of adjectives ajid adverbs; 
strong exact nouns a?id verbs do the work, and this ?neans 
that the veritable object and action are brought forward, not 
qualifying talk around and about them. And this, again, 
could not be were it not for what is, beyond all others, his 
greatest quality — absolute precision. ^^ I sometimes think,'' 
he 071 ce wrote playfully about letters of his having been mis- 
understood, "/ sometimes think that I am the only man in the 
world who understands the tneaning of the written word. 



The Introduction 



XXIX 



Or the only one who does not.'" A reader of Ambrose Bierce 
comes ahnostto believe that not till now has he found a writer 
who understands — completely — the meaning of the written 
word. He has the power to bring out new meanings in well- 
worn words, so setting them as to evoke brilliant signifi- 
cances never before revealed. He gives to one phrase the 
beauty, the cofnpressed suggestion of a poem ; his titles — 
Black Beetles in Amber, Ashes of the Beacon, Cob- 
webs from an Empty Skull are masterpieces in tninia- 
ture. 'That he should have a gift of coining striking words 
naturally follows : in his later years he has fallen into his 
^^anecdotagel' a certain Socialist is the greatest '■f utilitar- 
ian' of them all, ^femininies" — a fid so on infinitely. Often 
the smaller the Bierce an gem, the more exquisite the work- 
manship. One word has all the sparkle of an epigram. 

In such skill AmbroseBierceisnot surpassed by afiy writer, 
ancient or modern; it gives him rank among the few mas- 
ters who afford that highest form of intellectual delight, the 
immediate recognition of a clear idea perfectly set forth in 
ftting words — wif s twin brother, evoking that rare joy, the 
sudden, secret laughter of the mind. So much for Bierce the 
artist; the man is found in these letters. If further clue to 
the real nature of Ambrose Bierce were needed it is to be 
found in a conversation he had in his later years with a 
young girl: " Tou must be very proud, Mr. Bierce, of all your 
books and your fame V '■^No^' he answered rather sadly, 
^^you will come to know that all that is worth while in life 
is the love you have had for a few people near to you.'' 



A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce 

by George Sterling 



XXXlll 



A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce 

by George Sterling 



T uou Gu/rom boyhood a lover of tales of the terrible, 
it 'was not until my twenty-secondyear that I heard 
of Ambrose Bierce, I having then been for ten 
months a resident of Oakland, California. But in the fall of 
the year i8gi my friend Rooseveltfohnson, newly arrived 
from our town of birth. Sag Harbor, New York, asked me 
if I were acquainted with his work, adding that he had been 
told that Bierce was the author of stories not inferior in 
awsomeness to the most terrible ofPoes. 

We made inquiry and found that Bierce had for several 
years been writing columns of critical comment , satirically 
namedVY2itt\c,for the editorial page of the Sunday Exam- 
INER, of San Francisco. As my uncle, of whose household I 
had be en for nearly a year a member, did not subscribe to that 
journal,! had unfortunately overlooked these weekly contri- 
butions to the wit and sanity of our western literature — an 
omission for which we partially consoled ourselves by sub- 
sequently reading with great eagerness each installment of 
Prattle as it appeared. But, so far as his short stories were 
concerned, we had to content ourselves with the assurance 
of a neighbor that ^^ they' d scare an owl off a tombstone'' 



XXXIV 



A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce 



However J at er in the autumn ywhile making apilgri?nage 
to the home of our greatly worshipped foaquin Miller^ we 
became acquainted with Albert, an elder brother of Bierce s, 
a man who was to be one of my dearest of friends to the day 
of his death, in March, ^^9^4- From him we obtained much 
to gratify our not unnatural curiosity as to this ??iysterious 
being, who from his isolation on a lonely mountain above the 
Napa Valley, scattered weekly thujider bolts on the fool, the 
pretender, and the knave, and cast ridicule or censwe on 
many that sat in the seats of the mighty. For none, how ever 
socially or financially powerful, was safe from the stab of 
that aculeate pen, the venom of whose ink is to gleam vividly 
fro?n the pages of literature for centuries yet to come. 

For Bierce is of the immortals. T^ hat fact, known, I think, 
to him, and seeming then more and more evident to so?ne of 
his admirers, has become plainly apparent to anyonewho can 
appraise the matter with eyes that see bey ondthe flimsy arti- 
fices that bulk so large and so briefly in the literary arena. 
Bierce was a sculptor who wrought in hardest crystal. 

I was not to be so fortunate as to beco?ne acquainted with 
him until after the publication of his first volume of short 
stories, entitle dT'AS.Q^ of Soldiers and Civilians. That mild 
title gives scant indication of the terrors that await the un- 
warnedreader. I recall that I hungfascinated over the book, 
unable to lay it down until the last of its printed dooms had 
become an imperishable portion of the memory. The tales are 
told with a calmness and reserve that make most ofPoe's 
seem somewhat boyish and melodramatic by co?nparison. 



A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce 



XXXV 



The greatest of them seems to me to be An Occurrence at 
Owl Creek Bridge, though I am perennially charmed by 
the weird beauty ofKn Inhabitant of Carcosa, a tale of 
unique and unforgettable quality. 

Bierce^ born in Ohio in 1 8 42, came to San Francisco soon 
after the close of the Civil War. It is amusing to learn that 
he was one of a family of eleven children, male and female, 
the Christian name of each of whom began with the letter 
^^Ar Obtaining employ??ient at first in the United States 
Mint, whither Albert, always his favorite brother, had pre- 
ceded him, he soon gravitated to journalism, doing his first 
woi'k on the San Francisco News Letter. His brother 
once toldfne that he i^Ambrose^ had from boyhood been eager 
to become a writer and was expectant of success at that pur- 
suit. 

Isolatedfrom most men by the exalted and austere habit 
of his thought , Bierce finally suffered a corresponding exile 
of the body, and was forced to live in high altitudes, which 
of necessity are lonely. This latter banishment was on ac- 
count of chronic and utterly incurable asthma, an ailment 
contracted in what might almost be termed a characteristic 
manner. Bierce had no fear of the deadfolk and their 7narble 
city. From occasional strollings by night in Laurel Mill 
Cemetery, in San Francisco, his spirit * * drank repose, ' ' and 
was able to attain a serenity in which the cares of daytime 
existence faded to nothingness. It was on one of those strolls 
that he elected to lie for awhile in the moonlight on a fiat 
tombstone, and awakening late in the night, found himself 



XXXVl 



A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce 



thoroughly chilled, and a subsequent victitn of the disease 
that was to cast so dark a shadow over his following years. 
For his sufferings from asthma were terrible, arising oft en 
to a height that required that he be put under the influence 
of chloroform. 

So afflicted, he found visits to the lowlands a thing not to 
be indulged in with i?}ipunity. For many years such trips 
terminated invariably in a severe attack of his ailment, 
and he was driven back to his heights shaken and harassed. 
But he found such visits both necessary and pleasant on 
occasion, and it was during one that he made in the summer 
of l8g2 that I first made his acquaintance, while he was 
temporarily a guest at his brother Alb er f s camp en a rocky, 
laurel-covered knoll on the eastern shore of Lake Temescal, 
a spot now crossed by the tracks of the Oakland, Antioch 
and Fast em Railway. 

I am not likely to forget his first night atnong us. A tent 
being, for his ailment, insuffciently ventilated he decided 
to sleep by the campfire, and I, carried away by 7ny youthful 
hero-worship, must partially gratify it by occupying the 
side of the fire opposite to him. I had a comfortable cot in my 
tent, and was unaccustomed at the time to sleeping on the 
ground, the consequence being that I awoke at least every 
half -hour. But awake as often as I might, always I found 
Bierce lying on his back in the dim light of the ejnbers, his 
gaze fixed on the stars of the zenith. I shall ?iot forget the 
gaze of those eyes, the most piercingly blue, under yellow 
shaggy brows, that I have ever seen. 



A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce 



XXXVll 



After that, I saw him at his brother s home in Berkeley, at 
irregular intervals, and once paid him a visit at his own 
temporary home atSkylands, above Wrights, in Santa Clara 
County , whither he had moved from Howell Mountain, in 
Napa County. It was on this visit that I was emboldened 
to ask his opinion on certain verses of mine, the ambition to 
become a poet having infected me at the scandalously mature 
age of twenty-six. He was hospitable to tny wish, and I was 
foj'tunate enough to be his pupil almost to the year of his 
going forth from among us. Dwing the greater part of that 
time he was a resident of JVashi?igton,D.C ., whither he had 
gone in behalf of the San Francisco Examiner, to aid in 
defeating (as was successfully accomplished^ the Funding 
Bill proposed by the Southern Pacific Company. It was on 
this occasion that he electrified the Senate's com?nittee by 
repeatedly refusing to shake the hand of the proponent of 
that measure, no less for ?nidable an individual than Collis 
P. Huntington. 

For Bierce carried into actual practice his convictions on 
ethical inatters. Secure in his own self-respect, and valuing 
his friendship or approval to a high degree, he refused to 
make, as he put it, " a harlot of his friendship!' Indeed, he 
once told me that it was his rule, on subsequently discover- 
ing the unworth of a person to whom a less fastidious friend 
had without previous warning introduced him, to write a 
letter to that person and assure him that he regarded the 
introduction as a mistake, and that the twain were thence- 
forth to'-^meet as strangers! ' ' He also once infor??tedme that 



XXXVlll 



A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce 



he did not care to be introduced to persons whom he had 
criticize dy or was about to criticize, in print. ^^ I might get 
to like the beggar,'' was his comment ,*■*• and then F d have 
one less pelt in my collection^ 

In his criticisfn ofiiiy own work, he seldom used more than 
suggestion,realizing,no doubt, the sensitiveness of the tyro 
in poetry. It has been hinted to me that he laid, as it were, 
a hand of ice on 7ny youthful enthusiasms, but that, to such 
extent as it ?nay be true, was, I think, a good tlmigfor a 
pupil of the art, youth being apt to gush and become over- 
sentimental. Most poets would give ?nuch to be able to ob- 
literate some of their earlier work, and he must have saved 
me a major portion of such putative embarrassfnent. Re- 
viewing the manuscripts that bear his marginal counsels, 
I can now see that such suggestions were all^Undicated," 
though at the time I dissented from some of them. It was one 
of his tenets that a critic should " keep his heai't out of his 
head" {to use his own words^,when sitting in judgment on 
the work of writers whom he knew and liked. But lean- 
not but think that he was guilty of sad violations of that 
rule, especially in my own case. 

Bierce lived tnany years in Washington before making 
a visit to his old home. That happened in IQIO, in which 
year he visited ?ne at Carmel, and we afterwards camped 
for several weeks together with his brother and nephew, 
in Tose??iite. I grew to know him better in those days, and 
he found us hospitable, in the main degree, to his view of 
things, socialism being the only issue on which we were not 



A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce 



XXXIX 



in accord. It led to many warm arguments, which, as usual, 
conduced nowhere but to the suspicion that truth in such 
matters was maijily a question of taste. 

I saw him again in the summer ofigil, which he spent 
at Sag Harbor. We were tniich on the water, guests of my 
uncle in his power-yacht ^^ La Mascotte II.'' He was a 
devotee of canoeing, and made many trips on the wann and 
shallow bays of eastern Long Island, which he seemed to 
prefer to the less spacious reaches of the Potomac. He re- 
visitedCalifornia in the fall of the next year, a trip o?i which 
we saw him for the last time. An excursion to the Grand 
Canyon was occasionally pi'oposed, but nothing came of it, 
nor did he consent to be again my guest at Carmel, on the 
rather surprising excuse that the village contained too many 
anarchists I And in November, igij, I received my last 
letter from him, he being then in Laredo, Texas, about to 
cross the border into warring Mexico. 

Why he should have gone forth on so hazardous an en- 
terprise is for the most part a matter of conjecture. It may 
have been in the spirit of adventure , or out of boredom, or he 
may not, even, have been jesting when he wrote to an ititi- 
mate friend that, ashamed of having lived so long, and not 
carifigto end his life by his own hand,he was going across 
the border and let the Mexicans perform for him that ser- 
vice. But he wrote to others that he purposed to extend his 
pilgrimage as far as South America, to cross the Andes, 
and return to New York by way of a steatnerfrom Buenos 
Ayres.At any rate, we know, from letters written during 



xl A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce 

the winter months, that he had unofficially attached him- 
self to a section of Villa's ar?}7y,even taking an active part 
in the fighting. He was heard from until the close ofigij; 
after that date the mist closes in upon his trail, and we are 
left to surmise what we may. Many rumors as to his fate 
have come out of Mexico, one of them even placing him in 
the trenches of Flanders. These rumors have been, so far as 
possible, investigated: all end in nothing. The only one that 
seems in the least degree illuminative is the tale brought by 
a veteran reporter from the City of Mexico, and published 
in the San FranciscoBuLLETi'N.Itisthe story of a soldier in 
Villa s ar?ny, one of a detachment that captured, near the 
village oflcamole, an ai7imunition train of the Carran- 
zistas. One of the prisoners was a sturdy, white-haired, 
ruddy-faced Gringo, who, according to the tale, went be- 
fore the firing squad with an Indian muleteer, as sole com- 
panion in misfortune. The description of the manner — in- 
different, even contemptuous — with which the white-haired 
man met his death seems so characteristic of Bierce that 
one would almost be inclined to give credence to the tale, 
impossible though it may be of verification. But the date of 
the tragedy being given as late in igi^,it seems incredible 
that Bierce could have escaped observation for so long a 
period, with so many persons in Mexico eager to know of his 
fate. It is far more likely that he met his death at the hands 
of a roving band of outlaws or guerrilla soldiery. 

I have had often in tnind the vision of his capture by such 
a squad, their discovery of the considerable a?nount of gold 



A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce xli 

coin that he was known to carry on his person, and his im- 
mediate condemnation and execution as a spy in order that 
they might retain possession of the booty. Naturally, such 
proceedings would not have been reported, from fear of the 
necessity of sharing with those ^'-higher up.'' And so the veil 
would have remained drawn, and impenetrable to vision. 
Through the efforts of the War Department, all United 
States Consuls were questioned as to Bierce' s possible de- 
parture from the country ; all Americans visiting or resid- 
ing in Mexico were begged for infonnatton — even pros- 
pectors. But the story of the reporter is the sole one that seems 
partially credible. To such darkness did so shining and fear- 
less a soul go forth. 

It is now over eight years since that disappearance, and 
though the likelihood of his existence in thefesh seems faint 
indeed, the storm of detraction and obloquy that he always 
insisted would follow his demise has never broken, is not 
even on the horizon. Instead,he seems to be remeinberedwith 
tolerance by even those whom he visited with a chastening 
pen. Each year of darkness but makes the star of his fame 
increase and brighten, but we have, I think, no full con- 
ception as yet of his greatness, no adequate realization of 
how wide and permanent a fame he has won. It is signifi- 
cant that some of the discerning admire him for one phase 
of his work, somefor another. For instance, the clear-headed 
H. L. Mencken acclaims him as the first wit of America, 
but will have none of his tales ; while others, somewhat dis- 
concerted by the cynicism pervading much of Ins wit, place 



xlii A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce 

him among theforemost exponents of the art of the short story. 
Others again prefer his humor [for he was humorist as 
well as wit\ , and yet others like inost the force ^ clarity and 
keen insight of his innutnerable essays and briefer comments 
on mundane affairs. Personally, I have always regarded 
Poe'sY^W of the House oi\Js\\Q^v as our greatest tale; close 
to that come, in my opinion, at least a dozen of Pierce' s sto- 
ries, whether of the soldier or civilian . Pie has hi7n self stated 
in Prattle: *'/ am not a poet!' And yet he wrote poeti-y, 
on occasion, of a high order, his Invocation being one of the 
noblest poems in the tongue. Some of his satiricalverse seems 
to me as terrible in its withering invective as any that has 
been written by classic satirists, not exceptingfuvenal and 
Swift. Like the victims of their ??iercilesspens, his, too, will 
befoi'giveii and forgotten. Today no one knows, nor cares, 
whether or not those long-dead offenders gave just offense. 
The grave has closed over accuser and accused, and the only 
thing that matters is that a great mind was permitted to 
function. One ?nay smile or sigh over the satire, but one must 
also realize that even the satirist had his own weaknesses, 
and could have been as savagely attacked by a mentality 
as keen as his own. Men as a whole will never greatly care 
for satire, each recog?iizing,true enough, glimpses of him- 
self in the invective, but sensing as well its fundamental 
bias and cruelty. However, Pierce thought best of himself 
as a satirist. 

Naturally, Pierce carried his wit and humor into his im- 
mediate human relationships. I best recall an occasion. 



A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce xliii 

when^ in my first year of acquaintance with hijn, we were 
both guests at the home of the painter, f. H. E. Partington. 
It happened that a bowl of nasturtiums adorned the center 
table, and having been taught by Father Tabb, the poet, 
to relish that fiower, I managed to consume most of them 
before the close of the evening, knowing there were plenty 
more to be had in the garden outside. Someone at last re- 
mar ked:^^ Why, George has eaten all the nasturtiums! Go 
out and bring some more.' ' At which Bierce dryly and justly 
remarked'.^^No — bring some thistles! ' ' // is an indication, 
however,of his real kindness of heart that,obse?'ving my con- 
fusion,he afterwards apologized to me for what he tertned 
a thoughtless jest. It was, nevertheless, well deserved. 
I recall even ?nore distinctly a scene of another setting. 
This concerns itself with Bierce' s son, Leigh, then a youth 
in the ea?^ly twenties. At the time (circa iSg^) I was a 
brother lodger with them in an Oakland apartment house. 
Toung Bierce had contracted a liaison with a girl of his 
own age, and his father, determined to end the affair, had 
appointed an hour for discussion of the matter. The youth 
entered his father s rooms defiant and resolute: within an 
hour he appeared weeping, and cried out to me, waiting for 
him in his own room: *■'■ My father is a greater jnan than 
Christ! He has suffered more than Christ! " And the affair 
of the heart was promptly terfninated. 

0?ie conversant with Bierce only as a controversionalist 
and CQn?>ov morum was, almost of necessity, constrained to 
imagine him a misanthrope, a soured and cynical recluse. 



xllv A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce 

Only when one was privileged to see him among his inti- 
mates could one obtain gli?npses of his true nature , which 
was consider ate ^generous, even affectio7iate. Only the wav- 
ing of the red flag of Socialism could rouse in him what 
seetned to us others a certain savageness of intolerance. 
Needless to say, we did not often invoke it, for he was an 
ill man with whom to bandy words. It was my hope, at one 
time, to involve him andfack London in a controversy on 
the subject, but Lo?idon declined the oral encounter, prefer- 
ring one with the written word. Nothing came of the plan, 
which is a pity, as each was a supreme exponent of his point 
of view. Bierce subsequently attended one of the midsufnmer 
encampments of the Bohemian Club, of which he was once 
the secretary, in their redwood grove ?ieartheRussia?t river. 
Hearing that London was present, he asked why they had 
not been mutually introduced, and I was forced to tell him 
that I feared that they ' dbe, verbally, at each other s throats , 
within an hour. '■^ Nonsense V exclaimed Bierce. ^^ Bring 
him around! r II treat him like a Dutch Uncle.'' He kept 
his word, and seetned as much attracted to London as Lon- 
don was to him. But I was always ill at ease when they 
were conversing. I do not think the two men ever met again . 
Bierce was the cleanest man, personally, of whom I have 
knowledge — almost fanatically so, if such a thing be possi- 
ble. Even during our weeks of camping in the Tosemite, he 
would spend two hours on his morning toilet in the privacy 
of his tent. His nephew always insisted that the time was 
devoted to shaving himself from face to foot I He was also 



A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce xlv 

a most modest man, and 1 still recall his decided objections 
to my bathing attire 'when at the swimming-pool of the Bohe- 
mian Club, in the R us si an R iver. Compared to many oft hose 
visible, it seemed more than adequate; but he had another 
opifiion of it. He was a good, even an eminent, tankard-man, 
and retained a clear judgment under any amount of pota- 
tions. He preferred wine (especially a dry vin du pays, usu- 
ally a sauterne^ to ^^hard likker,'' in this respect differing 
in taste from his elder brother. In the days when I first ?nade 
his acquaintance,! was accustomed to roa?n the hills beyond 
Oakland and Berkeley from Cordonices Creek to Leona 
Heights, in company with Albert Bierce, his son Carlton, 
R.L. (^^Dick''^ Partington,Leigh Bierce (Ambrose s sur- 
viving sort) and other youths. On such occasions I sometiines 
hid a superfluous bottle of port or sherry in a convenient 
spot, and Bierce, afterwards accompanying us on several 
such outings, pretended to believe that I had such flagons 
concealed under each bush or rock in the reach and breadth 
of the hills, and would, to carry out the jest, hunt zealously 
in such recesses. I could wish that he were less often unsuc- 
cessful in the search, now that he has had'''' the coal-black 
wine"" to drink. 

"7 hough an appreciable portion of his satire hints at mis- 
anthropy, Bierce, while p7'ofoundly a pessimist, was, by his 
own confession to tne,^^ a lover of his country and his fellow- 
men," and was ever ready to proffer assistance in the time 
of need and sympathy in the hour of sorrow. His was a great 
and tender heart, and giving of it greatly, he expected, or 



xlvi A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce 

rather hoped for, a return as great. It tnay have bee?i by 
reason of the frustration of such hopes that he so often broke 
with old and, despite his doubts, appreciative friends , His 
brother Albert once toldme that he {Ambrose^ hadneverbeen 
^^ quite the same,'' after the wound in the head that he re- 
ceived in the battle of Kenesaw Mountain, but had a ten- 
dency to become easily offended and to show that resentment. 
Such estrangements as he and his friends suffered are not, 
the7'efore, matters on which one should sit i?i judgment. It 
is sad to know that he went so gladly from life, grieved and 
disappointed. But the white fa?ne of Art that he tended for 
nearly half a cetitury was fiever permitted to gi'ow faint 
nor smoky, and it burned to the last with a pure brilliaiice. 
Perhaps, he bore witjiess to what he had found most admir- 
able andenduri77g in life in the following words, the conclu- 
sion of the finest of his essays: 

*' Literature and art are about all that the world really 
cares for in the end; those who make them are not without 
justification in regarding themselves as ni asters in the House 
of Life and all others as their servitors. In the babble and 
clamor, the prariks and antics of its coutitless incapables, 
the tremendous dignity of the profession of letters is over- 
looked; but when, casting a retrospective eye into ' the dark 
backward and abysm of time' to where beyond these voices 
is the peace of desolation, we note the majesty of the few 
immo7'tals and compare them with the pygmy figures of their 
contemporajy kings, warriors and men of action generally — 
when across the silent battle-fields and hushed fora where 



A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce xl 



Vll 



the dull destinies of nations were determined^ nobody cares 
how, we hear 

like ocean on a western beach 
'The surge and thunder of the Odyssey, 

then we appraise literature at its true value, and how little 
worth while seems all else with which Man is pleased to 
occupy his fussy soul and futile hands!'" 



"The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 



My dear Blanche, 

You will not, I hope, mind my saying that the first part Angwin, 
of your letter was so pleasing that it almost solved the dis- 1892. 
appointment created by the other part. For that is a bit dis- 
couraging. Let me explain. 

You receive my suggestion about trying your hand * * * 
at writing, with assent and apparently pleasure. But, alas, 
not for love of the art, but for the purpose of helping God re- 
pair his botchwork world. You want to "reform things," poor 
girl —to rise and lay about you, slaying monsters and liber- 
ating captive maids.You would " help to alter for the better 
the position of working-women." You would be a mission- 
ary — and the rest of it. Perhaps I shall not make myself 
understood when I say that this discourages me; that in such 
aims (worthy as they are) I would do nothing to assist you; 
that such ambitions are not only impracticable but incom- 
patible with the spirit that gives success in art; that such 
ends are a prostitution of art; that "helpful" writing is 
dull reading. If you had had more experience of life I should 
regard what you say as entirely conclusive against your 
possession of any talent of a literary kind. But you are 
so young and untaught in that way — and I have the 
testimony of little felicities and purely literary touches 
(apparently unconscious) in your letters — perhaps your 



4 'The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

unschooled heart and hope should not be held as having 
spoken the conclusive word. But surely, my child — as 
surely as anything in mathematics — Art will laurel no 
brow having a divided allegiance. Love the world as much 
as you will, but serve it otherwise. The best service you 
can perform by writing is to write well with no care for 
anything but that. Plant and water and let God give the 
increase if he will, and to whom it shall please him. 

Suppose your father were to "help working-women" by 
painting no pictures but such (of their ugly surroundings, 
say) as would incite them to help themselves, or others to 
help them. Suppose you should play no music but such as — 
but I need go no further. Literature (I don't mean journal- 
ism) is an art; — it is not a form of benevolence. It has noth- 
ing to do with '^reform," and when used as a means of reform 
sujffers accordingly and justly. Unless you can /^^/ that way 
I cannot advise you to meddle with it. 

It would be dishonest in me to accept your praise for 
what I wrote of the Homestead Works quarrel — unless 
you should praise it for being well written and true. I have 
no sympathies with that savage fight between the two 
kinds of rascals, and no desire to assist either — except to 
better hearts and manners. The love of truth is good 
enough motive for me when I write of my fellowmen. I 
like many things in this world and a few persons — I like 
you, for example; but after they are served I have no love 
to waste upon the irreclaimable mass of brutality that we 
know as "mankind." Compassion, yes — I am sincerely 
sorry that they are brutes. 

Yes, I wrote the article "The Human Liver." Your criti- 
cism is erroneous. My opportunities of knowing women's 
feelings toward Mrs. Grundy are better than yours. They 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 5 

hate her with a horrible antipathy; but they cower all the 

same. The fact that they are a part of her mitigates neither 

their hatred nor their fear. 

* * * 

After next Monday I shall probably be in St. Helena, but 
if you will be so good as still to write to me please address 
me here until I apprise you of my removal; for I shall in- 
tercept my letters at St. Helena, wherever addressed. And 
maybe you will write before Monday. I need not say how 
pleasant it is for me to hear from you. And I shall want to 
know what you think of what I say about your "spirit of 
reform." 

How I should have liked to pass that Sunday in camp 
with you all. And to-day— I wonder if you are there to-day. 
I feel a peculiar affection for that place. 

Please give my love to all your people, and forgive my 
intolerably long letters — or retaliate in kind. 

Sincerely your friend, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
dc» &^ &^ 

I KNOW, DEAR Blanche, of the disagreement among men st. Helena, 
as to the nature and aims of literature; and the subject is ^^^^^^^^' 
too "long" to discuss. I will only say that it seems to me 
that men holding Tolstoi's view are not properly literary 
men (that is to say, artists) at all. They are "mission- 
aries," who, in their zeal to lay about them, do not scruple 
to seize any weapon that they can lay their hands on; they 
would grab a crucifix to beat a dog. The dog is well beaten, 
no doubt (which makes him a worse dog than he was be- 
fore) but note the condition of the crucifix! The work of 
these men is better, of course, than the work of men of 
truer art and inferior brains; but always you see the possi- 



6 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

bilities — possibilities to them — which they have missed or 
consciously sacrificed to their fad. And after all they do no 
good. The world does not wish to be helped. The poor wish 
only to be rich, which is impossible, not to be better. They 
would like to be rich in order to be worse, generally speak- 
ing. And your working woman (also generally speaking) 
does not wish to be virtuous; despite her insincere depre- 
cation she would not let the existing system be altered if 
she could help it. Individual men and women can be 
assisted; and happily some are worthy of assistance. No 
class of mankind, no tribe, no nation is worth the sacrifice 
of one good man or woman; for not only is their average 
worth low, but they like it that way; and in trying to help 
them you fail to help the good individuals. Your family, 
your immediate friends, will give you scope enough for all 
your benevolence. I must include yourself. 

In timely illustration of some of this is an article by In- 
gersoU in the current North American Review —I shall send 
it you. It will be nothing new to you; the fate of the phil- 
anthropist who gives out of his brain and heart instead of 
his pocket — having nothing in that — is already known to 
you. 1 1 serves him richly right, too, for his low taste in loving. 
He who dilutes, spreads, subdivides, the love which natu- 
rally all belongs to his family and friends (if they are good) 
should not complain of non-appreciation. Love those, help 
those,whom from person al knowledge you know to be worthy . 
To love and help others is treason to them. But, bless my 
soul! I did not mean to say all this. 

But while you seem clear as to your own art, you seem 
undecided as to the one you wish to take up. I know the 
strength and sweetness of the illusions (that is, ^^lusions) 
that you are required to forego. I know the abysmal igno- 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 



7 



ranee of the world and human character which, as a girl, 
you necessarily have. I know the charm that inheres in the 
beckoning of the Britomarts, as they lean out of their 
dream to persuade you to be as like them as is compatible 
with the fact that you exist. But I believe, too, that if you 
are set thinking — not reading — you will find the light. 

You ask me of journalism. It is so low a thing that it may 
be legitimately used as a means of reform or a means of 
anything deemed worth accomplishing. It is not an art; 
art, except in the greatest moderation, is damaging to it. 
The man who can write well must not write as well as he 
can; the others may, of course. Journalism has many pur- 
poses, and the people's welfare may be one of them; though 
that is not the purpose-in-chief, by much. 

I don't mind your irony about my looking upon the un- 
fortunate as merely "literary material." It is true in so 
far as I consider them with reference to literature. Possibly 
I might be willing to help them otherwise — as your father 
might be willing to help a beggar with money, who is not 
picturesque enough to go into a picture. As you might be 
willing to give a tramp a dinner, yet unwilling to play "The 
Sweet Bye-and-Bye," or " Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay," to tickle 
his ear. 

You call me "master." Well, it is pleasant to think of 
you as a pupil, but — you know the young squire had to 
watch his arms all night before the day of his accolade and 
investiture with knighthood. I think I'll ask you to con- 
template yours a little longer before donning them — not 
by way of penance but instruction and consecration. When 
you are quite sure of the nature of your call to write — 
quite sure that it is not the voice of "duty" — then let me 
do you such slight, poor service as my limitations and the 



8 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

injunctions of circumstance permit. In a few ways I can 
help you. * * * 

Since coming here I have been ill all the time, but it 
seems my duty to remain as long as there is a hope that I 
can remain. If I get free from my disorder and the fear of it 
I shall go down to San Francisco some day and then try to 
see your people and mine. Perhaps you would help me to 
find my brother's new house — if he is living in it. 

With sincere regards to all your family, I am most truly 
your friend, Ambrose Bierce. 

Your letters are very pleasing to me. I think it nice of you 

to write them. 

£«» 5^ &^ 

St. Helena, DeAR BlANCHE, 

^"^"189^ It was not that I forgot to mail you the magazine that I 
mentioned; I could not find it; but now I send it. 

My health is bad again, and I fear that I shall have to 
abandon my experiment of living here, and go back to the 
mountain — or some mountain. But not directly. 

You asked me what books would be useful to you — I'm 
assuming that you've repented your sacrilegious attitude 
toward literature, and will endeavor to thrust your pretty 
head into the crown of martyrdom otherwise. I may men- 
tion a few from time to time as they occur to me. There is 
a little book entitled (I think) simply "English Composi- 
tion." It is by Prof. John Nichol — elementary, in a few 
places erroneous, but on the whole rather better than the 
ruck of books on the same subject. 

Read those of Landor's ''Imaginary Conversations" which 
relate to literature. 

Read Longinus, Herbert Spencer on Style, Pope's "Essay 
on Criticism "(don't groan— the detractors of Pope are not 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 9 

always to have things their own way), Lucian on the writ- 
ing of history — though you need not write history. Read 
poor old obsolete Karnes' notions ; some of them are not half 
bad. Read Burke "On the Sublime and Beautiful." 

Read— but that will do at present. And as you read don't 
forget that the rules of the literary art are deduced from 
the work of the masters who wrote in ignorance of them or 
in unconsciousness of them. That fixes their value; it is 
secondary to that of natural qualifications. None the less, 
it is considerable. Doubtless you have read many — per- 
haps most — of these things, but to read them with a view 
to profit as a writer may be difi^erent. If I could get to San 
Francisco I could dig out of those artificial memories, the 
catalogues of the libraries, a lot of titles additional — and 
get you the books, too. But I've a bad memory, and am 
out of the Book Belt. 

I wish you would write some little thing and send it me 
for examination. I shall not judge it harshly, for this I 
know: the good writer (supposing him to be born to the 
trade) is not made by reading, but by observing and ex- 
periencing. You have lived so little, seen so little, that your 
range will necessarily be narrow, but within its lines I 
know no reason why you should not do good work. But it 
is all conjectural — you may fail. Would it hurt if I should 
tell you that I thought you had failed? Your absolute and 
complete failure would not affect in the slightest my 
admiration of your intellect. I have always half suspected 
that it is only second rate minds, and minds below the 
second rate, that hold their cleverness by so precarious a 
tenure that they can detach it for display in words. 

God bless you, 

A. B. 



lo The Letters of Ambrose Bief^ce 

St. Helena, My DEAR BlANCHE, 

1892! I positively shall not bore you with an interminated 
screed this time. But I thought you might like to know 
that I have recovered my health, and hope to be able to 
remain here for a few months at least. And if I remain well 
long enough to make me reckless I shall visit your town 
some day, and maybe ask your mother to command you 
to let me drive you to Berkeley. It makes me almost sad 
to think of the camp at the lake being abandoned. 

So you liked my remarks on the "labor question." That 
is nice of you, but aren't you afraid your praise will get me 
into the disastrous literary habit of writing for some one 
pair of eyes.^ — your eyes? Or in resisting the temptation I 
may go too far in the opposite error. But you do not see 
that it is "Art for Art's sake" — hateful phrase! Certainly 
not, it is not Art at all. Do you forget the distinction I 
pointed out between journalism and literature? Do you 
not remember that I told you that the former was of so 
little value that it might be used for anything? My news- 
paper work is in no sense literature. It is nothing, and only 
becomes something when I give it the very use to which I 
would put nothing literary. (Of course I refer to my edi- 
torial and topical work.) 

If you want to learn to write that kind of thing, so as to 
do good with it, you've an easy task. Only it is not worth 
learning and the good that you can do with it is not worth 
doing. But hterature — the desire to do good with that will 
not help you to your means. It is not a sufficient incentive. 
The Muse will not meet you if you have any work for her 
to do. Of course I sometimes like to do good — who does 
not? And sometimes I am glad that access to a great num- 
ber of minds every week gives me an opportunity. But, 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 1 1 

thank Heaven, I don't make a business of it, nor use in it 
a tool so delicate as to be ruined by the service. 

Please do not hesitate to send me anything that you may 
be willing to write. If you try to make it perfect before you 
let me see it, it will never come. My remarks about the 
kind of mind which holds its thoughts and feelings by so 
precarious a tenure that they are detachable for use by 
others were not made with a forethought of your failure. 

Mr. Harte of the New England Magazine seems to want 
me to know his work (I asked to) and sends me a lot of it 
cut from the magazine. I pass it on to you, and most of it 
is just and true. 

But I'm making another long letter. 

I wish I were not an infidel — so that I could say: "God 
bless you," and mean it literally. I wish there were a God 
to bless you, and that He had nothing else to do. 

Please let me hear from you. Sincerely, A. B. 

&9^ &0» &^ 

My dear Blanche, 

I have been waiting for a full hour of leisure to write you st. Helena, 
a letter, but I shall never get it, and so I'll write you any- igpi!™ ^'^^ ' 
how. Come to think of it, there is nothing to say — nothing 
that needs be said, rather, for there is always so much that 
one would like to say to you, best and most patient of 
sayees. 

I'm sending you and your father copies of my book. Not 
that I think you (either of you) will care for that sort of 
thing, but merely because your father is my co-sinner in 
making the book, and you in sitting by and diverting my 
mind from the proof-sheets of a part of it. Your part, there- 
fore, in the work is the typographical errors. So you are in 
literature in spite of yourself. 



1 2 'The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

I appreciate what you write of my girl. She is the best of 
girls to me, but God knoweth I'm not a proper person to 
direct her way of life. However, it will not be for long. A 
dear friend of mine — the widow of another dear friend — 
in London wants her, and means to come out here next 
spring and try to persuade me to let her have her — for a 
time at least. It is likely that I shall. My friend is wealthy, 
childless and devoted to both my children. I wish that in 
the meantime she (the girl) could have the advantage of 
association withjyo^/. 

Please say to your father that I have his verses, which I 
promise myself pleasure in reading. 

Tou appear to have given up your ambition to "write 
things." I'm sorry, for "lots" of reasons — not the least 
being the selfish one that I fear I shall be deprived of a 
reason for writing you long dull letters. Won't you play 
at writing things.^ 

My (and Danziger's) book, "The Monk and the Hang- 
man's Daughter," is to be out nextmonth.The Publisher — 
I like to write it with a reverent capital letter — is unpro- 
fessional enough to tell me that he regards it as the very 
best piece of English composition that he ever saw, and he 
means to make the world know it. Now let the great En- 
ghsh classics hide their diminished heads and pale their 
ineffectual fires! 

So you begin to suspect that books do not give you the 
truth of life and character. Well, that suspicion is the be- 
ginning of wisdom, and, so far as it goes, a preliminary 
qualification for writing — books. Men and women are 
certainly not what books represent them to be, nor what 
they represent— and sometimes believe — themselves to be. 
They are better, they are worse, and far more interesting. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 13 

With best regards to all your people, and in the hope that 
we may frequently hear from you, I am very sincerely your 
friend, Ambrose Bierce. 

Both the children send their love to you. And they mean 

iust that. 

** s^ &^ s^ 

My dear Blanche, 

I send you by this mail the current New England Maga- st. Helena, 
z/w^ — merely because I have it by me and have read all 1892. 
of it that I shall have leisure to read. Maybe it will enter- 
tain you for an idle hour. 

I have so far recovered my health that I hope to do a 
little pot-boiling to-morrow. (Is that properly written with 
a hyphen? — for the life o' me I can't say, just at this 
moment. There is a story of an old actor who having 
played one part half his life had to cut out the name of the 
person he represented wherever it occurred in his lines: he 
could never remember which syllable to accent.) My ill- 
ness was only asthma, which, unluckily, does not kill me 
and so should not alarm my friends. 

Dr.Danziger writes thathehas ordered your father's sketch 
sent me. And I've ordered a large number of extra impres- 
sions of it — if it is still on the stone. So you see I like it. 

Let me hear from you and about you. 

Sincerely your friend, 

I enclose Bib. Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ s^ si^ 

Dear Mr. Partington, 

I've been too ill all the week to write you of your manu- st. Helena, 
scripts, or even read them understandingly. 1892. 

I think "Honest Andrew's Prayer" far and away the 
best. // is witty — the others hardly more than earnest, 
and not, in my judgment, altogether fair. But then you 



14 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

know you and I would hardly be likely to agree on a point 
of that kind, — I refuse my sympathies in some directions 
where I extend my sympathy — if that is intelligible. You, 
I think, have broader sympathies than mine — are not only 
sorry for the Homestead strikers (for example) but ap- 
prove them. I do not. But we are one in detesting their 
oppressor, the smug-wump, Carnegie. 

If you had not sent "Honest Andrew's Prayer" else- 
where I should try to place it here. It is so good that I hope 
to see it in print. If it is rejected please let me have it again 
if the incident is not then ancient history. 

I'm glad you like some things in my book. But you should 
not condemn me for debasing my poetry with abuse; you 
should commend me for elevating my abuse with a little 
poetry, here and there. I am not a poet, but an abuser — 
that makes all the difference. It is "how you look at it." 

But I'm still too ill to write. With best regards to all your 
family, I am sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce. 

I've been reading your pamphlet on Art Education. You 
write best when you write most seriously — and your best 
is very good. 

&D^ &^ &^ 
St. Helena, DeAR BLANCHE, 

I send you this picture in exchange for the one that you 
have — I'm "redeeming" all those with these. But I asked 
you to return that a long time ago. Please say if you like 
this; to me it looks like a dude. But I hate the other — the 
style of it. 

It is very good of your father to take so much trouble as 
to go over and work on that stone. I want the pictures — 
lithographs — only for economy: so that when persons for 
whom I do not particularly care want pictures of me I 



32. 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 1 5 

need not bankrupt myself in orders to the photographer. 
And I do not like photographs anyhow. How long, O Lord, 
how long am I to wait for that sketch oi you? 

My dear girl, I do not see that folk like your father and 
me have any just cause of complaint against an unappre- 
ciative world; nobody compels us to make things that the 
world does not want. We merely choose to because the 
pay, -plus the satisfaction, exceeds the pay alone that we 
get from work that the world does want. Then where is our 
grievance? We get what we prefer when we do good work; 
for the lesser wage we do easier work. It has never seemed 
to me that the "unappreciated genius" had a good case to 
go into court with, and I think he should be promptly non- 
suited. Inspiration from Heaven is all very fine — the 
mandate of an attitude or an instinct is good; but when A 
works for B, yet insists on taking his orders from C, what 
can he expect? So don't distress your good little heart with 
compassion — not for me, at least; whenever I tire of pot- 
boiling, wood-chopping is open to me, and a thousand other 
honest and profitable employments. 

I have noted Gertrude's picture in the Examiner with a 
peculiar interest. That girl has a bushel of brains, and her 
father and brother have to look out for her or she will leave 
them out of sight. I would suggest as a measure of precau- 
tion against so monstrous a perversion of natural order that 
she have her eyes put out. The subjection of women must 

be maintained. 

* * * 

Bib and Leigh send love to you. Leigh, I think, is expect- 
ing Carlt. I've permitted Leigh to join the band again, and 
he is very peacocky in his uniform. God bless you. 

Ambrose Bierce. 



1 6 T'he LeUers of Ambrose Bierce 

St. Helena, My DEAR BLANCHE, 

1892! I am glad you will consent to tolerate the new photo- 
graph—all my other friends are desperately delighted with 
it. I prefer your tolerance. 

But I don't like to hear that you have been "ill and 
blue"; that is a condition which seems more naturally to 
appertain to me. For, after all, whatever cause you may 
have for "blueness," you can always recollect that you are 
you^ and find a wholesome satisfaction in your identity; 
whereas I, alas, am // 

I'm sure you performed your part of that concert credit- 
ably despite the ailing wrist, and wish that I might have 
added myself to your triumph. 

I have been very ill again but hope to get away from here 
(back to my mountain) before it is time for another attack 
from my friend the enemy. I shall expect to see you there 
sometime when my brother and his wife come up. They 
would hardly dare to come without you. 

No, I did not read the criticism you mention — in the 
Saturday Review. Shall send you all the Saturdays that I 
get if you will have them. Anyhow, they will amuse (and 
sometimes disgust) your father. 

I have awful arrears of correspondence, as usual. 

The children send love. They had a pleasant visit with 
Carlt, and we hope he will come again. 

May God be very good to you and put it into your heart 
to write to your uncle often. 

Please give my best respects to all Partingtons, jointly 
and severally. Ambrose Bierce. 

dC» &^ &9» 

Angwin, Dear Blanche, 

November 29, . ■" 

1892, Only just a word to say that I have repented of my assent 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 17 

to your well-meant proposal for your father to write of me. 
If there is anything in my work in letters that engages his 
interest, or in my literary history — that is well enough, and 
I shall not mind. But "biography" in the other sense is 
distasteful to me. I never read biographical "stuff" of 
other writers — of course you know "stuff" is literary 
slang for "matter" — and think it "beside the question." 
Moreover, it is distinctly mischievous to letters. It throws 
no light on one's work, but on the contrary "darkens 
counsel." The only reason that posterity judges work with 
some slight approach to accuracy is that posterity knows 
less, and cares less, about the author's personality. It con- 
siders his work as impartially as if it had found it lying 
on the ground with no footprints about it and no initials 
on its linen. 

My brother is not "fully cognizant" of my history, any- 
how — not of the part that is interesting. 

So, on the whole, I'll ask that it be not done. It was only 
my wish to please that made me consent. That wish is no 
weaker now, but I would rather please otherwise. 

I trust that you arrived safe and well, and that your 
memory of those few stormy days is not altogether dis- 
agreeable. Sincerely your friend, Ambrose Bierce. 

£«» &^ &^ 
My dear Blanche, 

Returning here from the city this morning, I find your Angwin, 
letter. And I had not replied to your last one before that! isga,'" 
But that was because I hoped to see you at your home. I 
was unable to do so — I saw no one (but Richard) whom I 
really wanted to see, and had not an hour unoccupied by 
work or "business" until this morning. And then — it was 
Christmas, and my right to act as skeleton at anybody's 



1 8 'The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

feast by even so much as a brief call was not clear. I hope 
my brother will be as forgiving as I know you will be. 

When I went down I was just recovering from as severe 
an attack of illness as I ever had in my life. Please con- 
sider unsaid all that I have said in praise of this mountain, 
its air, water, and everything that is its. 

* * * 

It was uncommonly nice of Hume to entertain so good an 
opinion of me; if you had seen him a few days later you 
would have found a different state of affairs, probably; for 
I had been exhausting relays of vials of wrath upon him 
for delinquent diligence in securing copyright for my little 
story — whereby it is uncopyrighted. I ought to add that 
he has tried to make reparation, and is apparently contrite 
to the limit of his penitential capacity. 

No, there was no other foundation for the little story 
than its obvious naturalness and consistency with the 
sentiments "appropriate to the season." When Christen- 
dom is guzzling and gorging and clowning it has not time 
to cease being cruel; all it can do is to augment its hypoc- 
risy a trifle. 

Please don't lash yourself and do various penances any 
more for your part in the plaguing of poor Russell; he is 
quite forgotten in the superior affliction sent upon James 
Whitcomb Riley. That seems a matter of genuine public 
concern, if I may judge by what I heard in town (and I 
heard little else) and by my letters and "esteemed" 
(though testy) "contemporaries." Dear, dear, how sensi- 
tive people are becoming! 

Richard has promised me the Blanchescape that I have 
so patiently waited for while you were practicing the art of 
looking pretty in preparation for the sitting, so now I am 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 19 

happy. I shall put you opposite Joaquin Miller, who is 
now framed and glazed in good shape. I have also your 
father's sketch of me — that is, I got it and left it in San 
Francisco to be cleaned if possible; it was in a most unre- 
generate state of dirt and grease. 

Seeing Harry Bigelow's article in the Wave on women 
who write (and it's unpleasantly near to the truth of the 
matter) I feel almost reconciled to the failure of my gor- 
geous dream of making a writer oi you. I wonder if you 
would have eschewed the harmless, necessary tub and 
danced upon the broken bones of the innocuous tooth- 
brush. Fancy you with sable nails and a soiled cheek, 
uttering to the day what God taught in the night! Let us 
be thankful that the peril is past. 

The next time I go to "the Bay" I shall go to loig first. 

God bless you for a good girl. Ambrose Bierce. 

£«» &^ s^ 
[First part of this letter missing.] 

Yes, I know Blackburn Harte has a weakness for the pro- 
letariat of letters * * * and doubtless thinks Riley good 
because he is "of the people," peoply. But he will have to 
endure me as well as he can. You ask my opinion of Burns. 
He has not, I think, been translated into English, and I do 
not (that is, I can but will not) read that gibberish. I read 
Burns once— that was once too many times; but happily 
it was before I knew any better, and so my time, being 
worthless, was not wasted. 

I wish you could be up here this beautiful weather. But 
I dare say it would rain if you came. In truth, it is " thick- 
ening" a trifle just because of my wish. And I wish I had 



20 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

given you, for your father, all the facts of my biography 
from the cradle — downward. When you come again I 
shall, if you still want them. For I'm worried half to death 
with requests for them, and when I refuse am no doubt 
considered surly or worse. And my refusal no longer serves, 
for the biography men are beginning to write my history 
from imagination. So the next time I see you I shall give 
you (orally) that "history of a crime," my life. Then, if 
your father is still in the notion, he can write it from your 
notes, and I can answer all future inquiries by enclosing 
his article. 

Do you know? — you will, I think, be glad to know — 
that I have many more offers for stories at good prices, 
than I have the health to accept. (For I am less nearly well 
than I have told you.) Even the Examiner has "waked 
up" (I woke it up) to the situation, and now pays me $io a 
thousand words; and my latest offer from New York is I50. 

I hardly know why I tell you this unless it is because you 
tell me of any good fortune that comes to your people, and 
because you seem to take an interest in my affairs such as 
nobody else does in just the same unobjectionable and, in 
fact, agreeable way. I wish you were my "real, sure- 
enough" niece. But in that case I should expect you to pass 
all your time at Howell Mountain, with your uncle and 
cousin. Then I should teach you to write, and you could 
expound to me the principles underlying the art of being 
the best girl in the world. Sincerely yours, 

^^^ Ambrose Bierce. 

Angwin, My dear BlANCHE, 

1893! Not hearing from [you] after writing you last week, I fear 
you are ill— may I not know.^ I am myself ill, as I feared. On 
Thursday last I was taken violently ill indeed, and have but 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 21 

just got about. In truth, I'm hardly able to write you, but 
as I have to go to work on Friday, sure^ I may as well prac- 
tice a little on you. And the weather up here is Paradisai- 
cal. Leigh and I took a walk this morning in the woods. 
We scared up a wild deer, but I did not feel able to run it 
down and present you with its antlers. 

I hope you are well, that you are all well. And I hope 
Heaven will put it into your good brother's heart to send 
me that picture of the sister who is so much too good for 
him — or anybody. 

In the meantime, and always, God bless you. 

Ambrose Bierce. 

My boy (who has been an angel of goodness to me in my 
illness) sends his love to you and all your people. 

&t^ S^ &4^ 

My dear Partington, 

You see the matter is this way. You can't come up here Angwin, Cai. 
and go back the same day — at least that would give you 1893. '^^ 
but about an hour here. You must remain over night. Now 
I put it to you — how do you think I'd feel if you came and 
remained over night and I, having work to do, should have 
to leave you to your own devices, mooning about a place 
that has nobody to talk to? When a fellow comes a long 
way to see me I want to see a good deal of him, however be 
may feel about it. It is not the same as if he lived in the 
same bailiwick and " dropped in." That is why, in the pres- 
ent state of my health and work, I ask all my friends to 
give me as long notice of their comingas possible. I'm sure 
you'll say I am right, inasmuch as certain work if under- 
taken must be done by the time agreed upon. 

My relations with Danziger are peculiar — as any one's 
relations with him must be. In the matter of which you 



22 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

wished to speak I could say nothing. For this I must ask 
you to believe there are reasons. It would not have been 
fair not to let you know, before coming, that I would not 
talk of him. 

I thought, though, that you would probably come up to- 
day if I wrote you. Well, I should like you to come and pass 
a week with me. But if you come for a day I naturally want 
it to be an "off" day with me. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
&^ &^ &^ 

Angwin, My dear BlANCHE, 

1893! I should have written you sooner; it has been ten whole 
days since the date of your last letter. But I have not been 
in the mood of letter writing, and am prepared for mal- 
edictions from all my neglected friends but you. My 
health is better. Yesterday I returned from Napa, where I 
passed twenty-six hours, buried, most of the time, in fog; 
but apparently it has not harmed me. The weather here 
remains heavenly. * * * 

If I grow better in health I shall in time feel able to ex- 
tend my next foray into the Lowlands as far as Oakland 
and Berkeley. 

Here are some fronds of maiden-hair fern that I have just 
brought in. The first wild flowers of the season are begin- 
ning to venture out and the manzanitas are a sight to see. 

With warmest regards to all your people, I am, as ever, 
your most unworthy uncle, Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &^ s^ 

Angwin, My dear BlANCHE, 

^ "^"^893! What an admirable reporter you would be! Your account 
of the meeting with Miller in the restaurant and of the 
"entertainment" are amusing no end. * * * By the way, 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 23 

I observe a trooly offle "attack" on me in the Oakland 
Times of the 3rd (I think) * * * (I know of course it 
means me — I always know that when they pull out of 
their glowing minds that old roasted chestnut about 
"tearing down" but not "building up" — that is to say, 
effacing one imposture without giving them another in 
place of it.) The amusing part of the business is that he 
points a contrast between me and Realf (God knows 
there's unlikeness enough) quite unconscious of the fact 
that it is I and no other who have " built up" Realf's repu- 
tation as a poet — published his work, and paid him for it, 
when nobody else would have it; repeatedly pointed out its 
greatness, and when he left that magnificent crown of son- 
nets behind him protested that posterity would know Cali- 
fornia better by the incident of his death than otherwise — 
not a soul, until now, concurring in my view of the verses. 
Believe me, my trade is not without its humorous side. 

Leigh and I went down to the waterfall yesterday. It was 
almost grand — greater than I had ever seen it — and I 
took the liberty to wish that you might see it in that state. 
My wish must have communicated itself, somehow, though 
imperfectly, to Leigh, for as I was indulging it he expressed 
the same wish with regard to Richard. 

I wish too that you might be here to-day to see the swirls 
of snow. It is falling rapidly, and I'm thinking that this 
letter will make its way down the mountain to-morrow 
morning through a foot or two of it. Unluckily, it has a 
nasty way of turning to rain. 

My health is very good now, and Leigh and I take long 
walks. And after the rains we look for Indian arrow-heads 
in the plowed fields and on the gravel bars of the creek. My 
collection is now great; but I fear I shall tire of the fad 



24 T"^^ Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

before completing it. One in the country must have a fad 
or die of dejection and oxidation of the faculties. How happy 
is he who can make a fad of his work ! 

By the way, my New York publishers (The United States 
Book Company) have failed, owing me a pot of money, of 
which I shall probably get nothing. I'm beginning to cherish 
an impertinent curiosity to know what Heaven means to do 
to me next. If your function as one of the angels gives you 
a knowledge of such matters please betray your trust and 
tell me where I'm to be hit, and how hard. 

But this is an intolerable deal of letter. 

With best regards to all good Partingtons — and I think 
there are no others — I remain your affectionate uncle by 
adoption, Ambrose Bierce. 

Leigh has brought in some manzanita blooms which I 
shall try to enclose. But they'll be badly smashed. 

^1^ Si^ se» 
Angwin, My Dear Blanche, 
"1893! I thank you many times for the picture, which is a mon- 
strous good picture, whatever its shortcomings as a por- 
trait may be. On the authority of the great art critic, Leigh 
Bierce, I am emboldened to pronounce some of the work 
in it equal to Gribayedoff at his best; and that, according 
to the g. a. c. aforesaid, is to exhaust eulogium. But — it 
isn't altogether the Blanche that I know, as I know her. 
Maybe it is the hat — I should prefer you hatless, and so 
less at the mercy of capricious fortune. Suppose hats were 
to "go out" — I tremble to think of what would happen to 
that gorgeous superstructure which now looks so beauti- 
ful. O, well, when I come down I shall drag you to the hate- 
ful photographer and get something that looks quite like 
you — and has no other value. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 25 

And I mean to "see Oakland and die" pretty soon. I have 
not dared go when the weather was bad. It promises well 
now, but I am to have visitors next Sunday, so must stay 
at home. God and the weather bureau willing, you may be 
bothered with me the Saturday or Sunday after.We shall see. 

I hope your father concurs in my remarks on picture 
"borders" — I did not think of him until the remarks had 
been written, or I should have assured myself of his prac- 
tice before venturing to utter my mind o' the matter. If it 
were not for him and Gertrude and the Wave I should 
snarl again, anent " half-tones, "which I abhor. Hume tried 
to get me to admire his illustrations, but I would not, so far 
as the process is concerned, and bluntly told him he would 
not get your father's best work that way. 

If you were to visit the Mountain now I should be able 
to show you a redwood forest (newly discovered) and a 
picturesque gulch to match. 

The wild flowers are beginning to put up their heads to 
look for you, and my collection of Indian antiquities is 
yearning to have you see it. 

Please convey my thanks to Richard for the picture — 
the girlscape — and my best regards to your father and all 
the others. Sincerely your friend, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
&^ &^ £«> 

My dear Blanche, 
I'm very sorry indeed that I cannot be in Oakland Thurs- Angwin, 

1 • <<• 1 >> 111 February 21, 

day evenmg to see you m your glory, arrayed, doubt- 1893. 
less, like a lily of the field. However glorious you may be in 
public, though, I fancy I should like you better as you used 
to be out at camp. 
Well, I mean to see you on Saturday afternoon if you are 



26 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

at home, and think I shall ask you to be my guide to 
Grizzly ville; for surely I shall never be able to find the 
wonderful new house alone. So if your mamma will let you 
go out there with me I promise to return you to her in- 
stead of running away with you. And, possibly, weather 
permitting, we can arrange for a Sunday in the redwoods 
or on the hills. Or don't your folks go out any more o' 
Sundays.^ 

Please give my thanks to your mother for the kind invi- 
tation to put up at your house; but I fear that would be 
impossible. I shall have to be where people can call on me — 
and such a disreputable crowd as my friends are would ruin 
the Partingtonian reputation for respectability. In your new 
neighborhood you will all be very proper — which you could 
hardly be with a procession of pirates and vagrants pulling 
at your door-bell. 

So — if God is good — I shall call on you Saturday after- 
noon. In the meantime and always be thou happy — thou 
and thine. Your unworthy uncle, Ambrose Bierce. 

£<^ £>o> &^ 

Angwin, My DEAR BLANCHE, 

1893! It is good to have your letters again. If you will not let 
me teach you my trade of writing stories it is right that you 
practice your own of writing letters- You are mistress of 
that. Byron's letters to Moore are dull in comparison with 
yours to me. Some allowance, doubtless, must be made for 
my greater need of your letters than of Byron's. For, truth 
to tell, I've been a trifle dispirited and noncontent. In that 
mood I peremptorily resigned from the Examiner^ for one 
thing — and permitted myself to be coaxed back by Hearst, 
for another. My other follies I shall not tell you. * * * 
We had six inches of snow up here and it has rained 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 27 

steadily ever since — more than a week. And the fog is of 
superior opacity — quite peerless that way. It is still rain- 
ing and fogging. Do you wonder that your unworthy uncle 
has come perilously and alarmingly near to loneliness? Yet 
I have the companionship, at meals, of one of your excel- 
lent sex, from San Francisco. * * * 

Truly, I should like to attend one of your at-homes, but I 
fear it must be a long time before I venture down there 
again. But when this brumous visitation is past I can look 
down, and that assists the imagination to picture you all in 
your happy (I hope) home. But if that woolly wolf, Joaquin 
Miller, doesn't keep outside the fold I shall come down and 
club him soundly. I quite agree with your mother that his 
flattery will spoil you. You said I would spoil Phyllis, and 
now, you bad girl, you wish to be spoiled yourself. Well, you 
can't eat fourMillerine oranges.— My love to all your family. 

Ambrose Bierce. 

£«» &^ &t^ 

My dear Partington, 

I am very glad indeed to get the good account of Leigh ^"^^/"^^ 
that you give me. I've feared that he might be rather a bore 1893, 
to you, but you make me easy on that score. Also I am 
pleased that you think he has a sufficient "gift" to do 
something in the only direction in which he seems to care 
to go. 

He is anxious to take the place at the Examiner, and his 
uncle thinks that would be best — if they will give it him. 
I'm a little reluctant for many reasons, but there are con- 
siderations — some of them going to the matter of charac- 
ter and disposition — which point to that as the best ar- 
rangement. The boy needs discipline, control, and work. 
He needs to learn by experience that life is not all beer and 



2 8 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

skittles. Of course you can't quite know him as I do. As to 
his earning anything on tho. Examiner or tlstwh^rt, that cuts 
no figure —he'll spend everything he can get his fingers on 
anyhow; but I feel that he ought to have the advantage 
of a struggle for existence where the grass is short and the 
soil stony. 

Well, I shall let him live down there somehow, and see 
what can be done with him. There's a lot of good in him, 
and a lot of the other thing, naturally. 

I hope Hume has, or will, put you in authority in the 
Post and give you a decent salary. He seems quite enthu- 
siastic about the Post and — about you. 

With sincere regards to Mrs. Partington and all the Part- 
ingtonettes, I am very truly yours, Ambrose Bierce. 

&<^ £o» &^ 

Angwin, My DEAR PARTINGTON, 

^"1893! If you are undertaking to teach my kid (which, unless 
it is entirely agreeable to you, you must not do) I hope you 
will regard him as a pupil whose tuition is to be paid for like 
any other pupil. And you should, I think, name the price. 
Will you kindly do so? 

Another thing. Leigh tells me you paid him for something 
he did for the Wave. That is not right. While you let him 
work with you, and under you, his work belongs to you — 
is a part of yours. I mean the work that he does in your 
shop for the Wave. 

I don't wish to feel that you are bothering with him for 
nothing— will you not tell me your notion of what I should 
pay you? 

I fancy you'll be on the -E'A:<2w/«^r pretty soon— if youwish. 

With best regards to your family I am sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 



'The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 29 

My dear Blanche, 

As I was writing to your father I was, of course, strongly Angwin, 
impressed with a sense of you; for you are an intrusive kind j^^^ ^°' 
of creature, coming into one's consciousness in the most 
lawless way — Phyllis-like. (Phyllis is my "type and ex- 
ample" of lawlessness, albeit I'm devoted to her— a Phyl- 
listine, as it were.) 

Leigh sends me a notice (before the event) of your con- 
cert. I hope it was successful. Was it.^ 

It rains or snows here all the time, and the mountain 
struggles in vain to put on its bravery of leaf and flower. 
When this kind of thing stops I'm going to put in an appli- 
cation for you to come up and get your bad impressions of 
the place effaced. It is insupportable that my earthly para- 
dise exist in your memory as a " bad eminence," like Satan's 
primacy. 

I'm sending you the New England Magazine — perhaps I 
have sent it already — and a Harper s Weekly with a story 
by Mrs. * * * , who is a sort of pupil of mine. She used to 
do bad work — does now sometimes; but she will do great 
work by-and-by. 

I wish you had not got that notion that you cannot learn 
to write. You see I'd like you to do some art work that I 
can understand and enjoy. I wonder why it is that no note 
or combination of notes can be struck out of a piano that 
will touch me — give me an emotion of any kind. It is not 
wholly due to my ignorance and bad ear, for other instru- 
ments—the violin, organ, zither, guitar, etc., sometimes af- 
fect me profoundly. Come, read me the riddle if you know. 
What have I done that I should be inaccessible to your 
music? I know it is good; I can hear that it is, but not feel 
that it is. Therefore to me it is not. 



30 The Letters of Ambrose Eterce 

Now that, you will confess, is a woeful state— "most 
tolerable and not to be endured." Will you not cultivate 
some art within the scope of my capacity? Do you think 
you could learn to walk on a wire (if it lay on the ground) ? 
Can you not ride three horses at once if they are suitably 
dead? Or swallow swords? Really, you should have some 
way to entertain your uncle. 

True, you can talk, but you never get the chance; I al- 
ways "have the floor." Clearly you must learn to write, 
and I mean to get Miller to teach you how to be a poet. 

I hope you will write occasionally to me, — letter-writing 
is an art that you do excel in — as I in "appreciation" of 
your excellence in it. 

Do you see my boy? I hope he is good, and diligent in his 
work. * * * 

You must write to me or I shall withdraw my avuncular 
relation to you. 

With good will to all your people — particularly Phyllis — 
I am sincerely your friend, Ambrose Bierce. 

£«> &9» i>^ 
Angwin, Calif., My DEAR PARTINGTON, 

1893! I think you wrong. On your own principle, laid down in 
your letter, that "every man has a right to the full value 
of his labor" — pardon me, good Englishman, I meant 
"laboUr" — you have a right to your wage for the labour 
of teaching Leigh. And what work would be get to do but 
for you ? 

I can't hold you and inject shekels into your pocket, but 
if the voice of remonstrance has authority to enter at your 
ear without a ticket I pray you to show it hospitality. 

Leigh doubtless likes to see his work in print, but I hope 
you will not let him put anything out until it is as good as 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 3 1 

he can make it — nor then if it is not good enough. And 
that whether he signs it or not. I have talked to him about 
the relation of conscience to lab — work, but I don't know 
if my talk all came out at the other ear. 

— that bad joke o' mine. Where do you and Richard 
expect to go when death do you part? You were neither of 
you present that night on the dam, nor did I know either 
of you. Blanche, thank God, retains the old-time reverence 
for truth: it was to her that I said it. Richard evidently 
dreamed it, and you — you've been believing that con- 
founded Wave! Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ s^ &^ 
My dear Blanche, 

1 take a few moments from work to write you in order Angwin, 
(mainly) to say that your letter of March 31st did not go 1893. 
astray, as you seem to fear — though why you should care 

if it did I can't conjecture. The loss to me — that is prob- 
ably what would touch your compassionate heart. 

So you wi// try to write. That is a good girl. I'm almost 
sure you can — not, of course, all at once, but by-and-by. 
And if not, what matter? You are not of the sort, I am sure, 
who would go on despite everything, determined to suc- 
ceed by dint of determining to succeed. 

* * * 

We are blessed with the most amiable of all conceivable 
weathers up here, and the wild flowers are putting up their 
heads everywhere to look for you. Lying in their graves 
last autumn, they overheard {underh.ta.rd) your promise to 
come in the spring, and it has stimulated and cheered them 
to a vigorous growth. 

I'm sending you some more papers. Don't think yourself 
obhged to read all the stuff I send you — / don't read it. 



32 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Condole with me — I have just lost another publisher — 
by failure. Schulte, of Chicago, publisher of "The Monk" 
etc., has "gone under," I hear. Danziger and I have not 
had a cent from him. I put out three books in a year, and 
lo! each one brings down a publisher's gray hair in sorrow 
to the grave! for Langton, of "Black Beetles," came to 
grief— that is how Danziger got involved. "O that mine 
enemy would publish one of my books ! " 

I am glad to hear of your success at your concert. If I 
could have reached you you should have had the biggest 
basket of pretty vegetables that was ever handed over the 
footlights. I'm sure you merited it all — what do you not 
merit? 

Your father gives me good accounts of my boy. He must 
be doing well, I think, by the way he neglects all my com- 
missions. 

Enclosed you will find my contribution to the Partington 
art gallery, with an autograph letter from the artist. You 
can hang them in any light you please and show them to 
Richard. He will doubtless be pleased to note how the 
latent genius of his boss has burst into bloom. 

I have been wading in the creek this afternoon for pure 
love of it; the gravel looked so clean under the water. I 
was for the moment at least ten years younger than your 
father. To whom, and to all the rest of your people, my 
sincere regards, Your uncle, Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ s^ &^ 

Angwin, Cala., My DEAR BlANCHE, 

April 26, * * * 

1893. 

I accept your sympathy for my misfortunes in publishing. 
It serves me right (I don't mean the sympathy does) for 
publishing. I should have known that if a publisher cannot 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 22> 

beat an author otherwise, or is too honest to do so, he will 
do it by failing. Once in London a publisher gave me a 
check dated two days ahead, and then (the only thing he 
could do to make the check worthless —ate a pork pie and 
died. That was the late John Camden Hotten, to whose 
business and virtues my present London publishers, Chatto 
and Windus, have succeeded.They have not failed, and they 
refuse pork pie, but they deliberately altered the title of 
my book. 

All this for your encouragement in "learning to write." 
Writing books is a noble profession; it has not a shade of 
selfishness in it — nothing worse than conceit. 

yes, you shall have your big basket of flowers if ever I 
catch you playing in public. I wish I could give you the 
carnations, lilies-of-the-valley, violets, and first-of-the-sea- 
son sweet peas now on my table. They came from down near 
you —which fact they are trying triumphantly and as hard 
as they can to relate in fragrance. 

1 trust your mother is well of her cold — that you are all 
well and happy, and that Phyllis will not forget me. And 
may the good Lord bless you regularly every hour of every 
day for your merit, and every minute of every hour as a 
special and particular favor to Your uncle, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

£0» £4^ &^ 

My dear Blanche, 

I accept with pleasure your evidence that the Piano is not Berkeley, 
as black as I have painted, albeit the logical inference is 18^3. ^ ' 
that I'm pretty black myself. Indubitably I'm "in outer 
darkness," and can only say to you: "Lead, kindly light." 

Thank you for the funny article on the luxury question — 
from the funny source. But you really must not expect me 



34 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

to answer it, nor show you wherein it is "wrong." I cannot 
discern the expediency of you having any "views" at all 
in those matters — even correct ones. If I could have my 
way you should think of more profitable things than the 
(conceded) " wrongness " of a world which is the habitat of 
a wrongheaded and wronghearted race of irreclaimable sav- 
ages. * * * When woman "broadens her sympathies" they 
become annular. Don't. 

Cosgrave came over yesterday for a "stroll," but as he 
had a dinner engagement to keep before going home, he was 
in gorgeous gear. So I kindly hoisted him atop of Grizzly 
Peak and sent him back across the Bay in a condition im- 
possible to describe, save by the aid of a wet dishclout for 
illustration. 

Please ask your father when and where he wants me to 
sit for the portrait. If that picture is not sold, and ever 
comes into my possession, I shall propose to swap it for 
yours. I have always wanted to lay thievish hands on that, 
and would even like to come by it honestly. But what 
under the sun would I do with either that or mine? Fancy 
me packing large paintings about to country hotels and 
places of last resort ! 

Leigh is living with me now. Poor chap, the death of his 
aunt has made him an orphan. I feel a profound compas- 
sion for any one whom an untoward fate compels to live 
with me. However, such a one is sure to be a good deal 
alone, which is a mitigation. 

With good wishes for all your people, I am sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
^^ £$» &^ 

Berkeley, My DEAR BLANCHE, 
December 27, _, ,. ,, ^ /. . . ^ 

1893. I m sendmg you (by way of pretext tor writmg you) a 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 2,S 

magazine that I asked Richard to take to you last evening, 
but which he forgot. There's an illustrated article on gar- 
goyles and the like, which will interest you. Some of the 
creatures are delicious — more so than I had the sense to 
perceive when I saw them alive on Notre Dame. 

I want to thank you too for the beautiful muffler before I 
take to my willow chair, happy in the prospect of death. 
For at this hour, 10:35 P- "^-j -^ "have on" a very promising 
case of asthma. If I come out of it decently alive in a week 
or so I shall go over to your house and see the finished por- 
trait if it is "still there," like the flag in our national 
anthem. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
&^ &^ £o» 
My dear Blanche, 

If you are not utterly devoured by mosquitoes perhaps Oakland, 
you'll go to the postoffice and get this. In that hope I write, 1894." ' 
not without a strong sense of the existence of the clerks in 
the Dead Letter Office at Washington. 

I hope you are (despite the mosquitoes) having "heaps" 
of rest and happiness. As to me, I have only just recovered 
sufficiently to be out, and " improved the occasion " by going 
to San Francisco yesterday and returning on the 11:15 boat. 
I saw Richard, and he seemed quite solemn at the thought 
of the dispersal of his family to the four winds. 

I have a joyous letter from Leigh dated "on the road," 
nearing Yosemite. He has been passing through the storied 
land of Bret Harte, and is permeated with a sense of its 
beauty and romance. When shall you return? May I hope, 
then, to see you.^ Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

P. S. Here are things that I cut out for memoranda. On 



^6 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

second thought / know all that; so send them to you for the 
betterment of your mind and heart. B. 

s^ s^ &i^ 

San Jose, jyjy DEAR BLANCHE, 
October 17, ^^ , . ,, 1 1 • 1 t • 

1894. Your kmdly note was among a number which 1 put mto 
my pocket at the postoffice and forgot until last evening 
when I returned from Oakland. (I dared remain up there 
only a few hours, and the visit did me no good.) 

Of course I should have known that your good heartwould 
prompt the wish to hear from your patient, but I fear I was 
a trifle misanthropic all last week, and indisposed to com- 
municate with my species. 

I came here on Monday of last week, and the change has 
done me good. I have no asthma and am slowly getting 
back my strength. 

Leigh and Ina Peterson passed Sunday with me, and 
Leigh recounted his adventures in the mountains. I had 
been greatly worried about him; it seems there was abun- 
dant reason. The next time he comes I wish he would 
bring you. It is lovely down here. Perhaps you and Katie 
can come some time, and I'll drive you all over the valley — 
if you care to drive. 

If I continue well I shall remain here or hereabout; if not 
I don't know where I shall go. Probably into the Santa 
Cruz mountains or to Gilroy. If I could have my way I'd 
live at Piedmont. 

Do you know I lost Pin the Reptile? I brought him along 
in my bicycle bag (I came the latter half of the way bike- 
back) and the ungrateful scoundrel wormed himself out and 
took to the weeds just before we got to San Jose. So I've 
nothing to lavish my second-childhoodish affection upon — 
nothing but just myself. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 37 

My permanent address is Oakland, as usual, hut you may 
address me here at San Jose if you will be so good as to 
address me anywhere. Please do, and tell me of your tri- 
umphs and trials at the Conservatory of Music. I do fer- 
vently hope it may prove a means of prosperity to you, for, 
behold, you are The Only Girl in the World Who Merits 
Prosperity! 

Please give my friendly regards to your people; and so — 
Heaven be good to you. Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ s^ £•» 
O, Best of Poets, 

How have you the heart to point out what you deem an Sanjose, 
imperfection in those lines. Upon my soul, I swear they are jg"" ^'^ ' 
faultless, and "moonlight" is henceforth and forever a 
rhyme to "delight." Also, likewise, moreover and further- 
more, a is henceforth ; and are for- 
ever ; and to shall be ; and so forth. 

You have established new canons of literary criticism— more 
liberal ones— and death to the wretch who does not accept 
them! Ah, I always knew you were a revolutionist. 

Yes, I am in better health, worse luck! For I miss the beef- 
teaing expeditions more than you can by trying. 

By the way, if you again encounter your fellow practi- 
tioner, Mrs. Hirshberg, please tell her what has become of 
her patient, and that I remember her gratefully. 

It is not uninteresting to me to hear of your progress in 
your art, albeit I am debarred from entrance into the temple 
where it is worshiped. After all, art finds its best usefulness 
in its reaction upon the character; and in that work I can 
trace your proficiency in the art that you love. As you be- 
come a better artist you grow a nicer girl, and if your music 
does not cause my tympana to move themselves aright, yet 



38 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

the niceness is not without its effect upon the soul o' me. 
So I'm not so very inert a clod, after all. 

No, Leigh has not infected me with the exploring fad. I 
exhausted my capacity in that way years before I had the 
advantage of his acquaintance and the contagion of his 
example. But I don't like to think of that miserable moun- 
tain sitting there and grinning in the consciousness of hav- 
ing beaten the Bierce family. 

So— apropos of my brother—/ am "odd" after a certain 
fashion! My child, that is blasphemy. You grow hardier 
every day of your life, and you'll end as a full colonel yet, 
and challenge Man to mortal combat in true Stetsonian 
style. Know thy place, thou atom! 

Speaking of colonels reminds me that one of the most 
eminent of the group had the assurance to write me, asking 
for an "audience" to consult about a benefit that she — 
she\ — IS getting up for my friend Miss * * *, a glorious 
writer and eccentric old maid whom you do not know. 
* * * evidently wants more notoriety and proposes to shine 
by Miss * * * light. I was compelled to lower the temper- 
ature of the situation with a letter curtly courteous. Not 
even to assist Miss * * * shall my name be mixed up with 
those of that gang. But of course all that does not amuse 
you. 

I wish I could have a chat with you. I speak to nobody 
but my chambermaid and the waiter at my restaurant. By 
the time I see you I shall have lost the art of speech alto- 
gether and shall communicate with you by the sign lan- 
guage. 

God be good to you and move you to write to me some- 
times. Sincerely your friend, 

Ambrose Bierce. 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 39 

[First part of this letter missing.] 

* * * 

You may, I think, expect my assistance in choosing be- 
tween (or among) your suitors next month, early. I propose 
to try living in Oakland again for a short time beginning 
about then. But I shall have much to do the first few days — 
possibly in settling my earthly affairs for it is my determin- 
ation to be hanged for killing all those suitors. That seems 
to me the simplest way of disembarrassing you. As to me — 
it is the "line of least resistance" —unless they fight. 

* * * 

So you have been ill. You must not be ill, my child — it 
disturbs my Marcus Aurelian tranquillity, and is most self- 
ishly inconsiderate of you. 

Mourn with me: the golden leaves of my poplars are now 
underwheel. I sigh for the perennial eucalyptus leaf of 
Piedmont. 
I hope you are all well. Sincerely your friend, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
sd^ &^ s^ 

Since writing you yesterday, dear Blanche, I have ob- Sanjose, 
served that the benefit to * * * is not abandoned — it is to 1894!"^ ^'^ °' 
occur in the evening of the 26th, at Golden Gate Hall, San 
Francisco. I recall your kind offer to act for me in any way 
that I might wish to assist Miss * * *. Now, I will not have 
my name connected with anything that the * * * woman and 
her sister-in-evidence may do for their own glorification, 
but I enclose a Wells, Fargo & Co. money order for all the 
money I can presently afford — wherewith you may do as 
you will; buy tickets, or hand it to the treasurer in your 
own name. I know Miss * * * must be awfully needy to 



40 T'he Inciters of Ambrose Bierce 

accept a benefit — you have no idea how sensitive and sus- 
picious and difficult she is. She is almost impossible. But 
there are countless exactions on my lean purse, and I must 
do the rest with my pen. So — I thank you. 

Sincerely your friend, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
&^ s^ &^ 

i8 Iowa Circle, DeAR STERLING, 
Washington, D. C, rr., ... , i i i • r 

January I, i HIS IS just a hasty notc to acknowledge receipt or your 
1901. igi-fer and the poems. I hope to reach those pretty soon and 
give them the attention which I am sure they will prove to 
merit —which I cannot do now. By the way, I wonder why 
most of you youngsters so persistently tackle the sonnet. 
For the same reason, I suppose, that a fellow always wants 
to make his first appearance on the stage in the role of 
"Hamlet." It is just the holy cheek of you. 

Yes, Leigh prospers fairly well, and I — well, I don't know 
if it is prosperity; it is a pretty good time. 

I suppose I shall have to write to that old scoundrel 
Grizzly,* to give him my new address, though I supposed 
he had it; and the old one would do, anyhow. Now that his 
cub has returned he probably doesn't care for the other 
plantigrades of his kind. 

Thank you for telling me so much about some of our com- 
panions and companionesses of the long ago. I fear that not 
all my heart was in my baggage when I came over here. 
There's a bit of it, for example, out there by that little lake 
in the hills. 

So I may have a photograph of one of your pretty sisters. 
Why, of course I want it — I want the entire five of them; 
their pictures, I mean. If you had been a nice fellow you 

*Albert Bierce. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 41 

would have let me know them long ago. And how about 
that other pretty girl, your infinitely better half? You 
might sneak into the envelope a little portrait of her^ lest I 
forget, lest I forget. But I've not yet forgotten. 

The new century's best blessings to the both o' you. 

Ambrose Bierce. 

P. S. — In your studies of poetry have you dipped into 
Stedman'snew "American Anthology"? It is the most not- 
able collection of American verse that has been made — on 
the whole, a book worth having. In saying so I rather pride 
myself on my magnanimity; for of course I don't think he 
has done as well by me as he might have done. That, I 
suppose, is what every one thinks who happens to be alive 
to think it. So I try to be in the fashion. A. B. 

&^ &i^ &^ 
My dear Sterling, 

I've been a long while getting to your verses, but there 18 lowa Circle, 

IT 11 -1 Tpi Washington, D. C, 

were many reasons — mcludmg a broken rib. Ihey are January 19, 
pretty good verses, with here and there very good lines. I'd '9oi- 
a strong temptation to steal one or two for my "Passing 
Show," but I knew what an avalanche of verses it would 
bring down upon me from other poets — as every mention 
of a new book loads my mail with new books for a month. 

If I ventured to advise you I should recommend to you 
the simple, ordinary meters and forms native to our lan- 
guage. ^ 

I await the photograph of the pretty sister — don't fancy 
I've forgotten. 

It is I a. m. and I'm about to drink your health in a glass 
of Riesling and eat it in a pate. 

My love to Grizzly if you ever see him. Yours ever, 

A. B. 



42 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Washington, D. C, My DeAR DoYLE, 

1901! Your letter of the 1 6th has just come and as I am waiting 
at my office (where I seldom go) I shall amuse myself by 
replying "to onct." See here, I don't purpose that your 
attack on poor Morrow's book shall become a "continuous 
performance," nor even an "annual ceremony." It is not 
"rot." It is not "filthy." It does not "suggest bed-pans,"— 
at least it did not to me, and I'll wager something that 
Morrow never thought of them. Observe and consider: If 
his hero and heroine had been man and wife, the bed-pan 
would have been there, just the same; yet you would not 
have thought of it. Every reader would have been touched 
by the husband's devotion. A physician has to do with 
many unpleasant things; whom do his ministrations dis- 
gust. ^^ A trained nurse lives in an atmosphere of bed-pans — 
to whom is her presence or work suggestive of them? I'm 
thinking of the heroic Father Damien and his lepers; do 
you dwell upon the rotting limbs and foul distortions of his 
unhappy charges? Is not his voluntary martyrdom one of 
the sanest, cleanest, most elevating memories in all his- 
tory? Then it is not the bed-pan necessity that disgusts 
you; it is something else. It is the fact that the hero of the 
story, being neither physician, articled nurse, nor certifi- 
cated husband, nevertheless performed their work. He min- 
istered to the helpless in a natural way without authority 
from church or college, quite irregular and improper and 
all that. My noble critic, there speaks in your blood the 
Untamed Philistine. You were not caught young enough. 
You came into letters and art with all your beastly con- 
ventionalities in full mastery of you. Take a purge. Forget 
that there are Philistines. Forget that they have put their 
abominable pantalettes upon the legs of Nature. Forget 



The Letters of Ambrose Bterce 43 

that their code of morality and manners (it stinks worse 
than a bed-pan) does not exist in the serene altitude of great 
art, toward which you have set your toes and into which I 
want you to climb. I know about this thing. I, too, tried to 
rise with all that dead weight dragging at my feet. Well, I 
could not — now I could if I cared to. In my mind I do. It 
is not freedom of act — not freedom of living, for which I 
contend, but freedom of thought, of mind, of spirit; the 
freedom to see in the horrible laws, prejudices, custom, 
conventionalities of the multitude, something good for 
them, but of no value to you in your art. In your life and 
conduct defer to as much of it as you will (you'll find it con- 
venient to defer to a whole lot), but in your mind and art 
let not the Philistine enter, nor even speak a word through 
the keyhole. My own chief objection to Morrow's story is 
(as I apprised him) its unnaturalness. He did not dare to 
follow the logical course of his narrative. He was too cow- 
ardly (or had too keen an eye upon his market of prudes) 
to make hero and heroine join in the holy bonds of ^^^^^lock, 
as they naturally, inevitably and rightly would have done 
long before she was able to be about. I daresay that, too, 
would have seemed to you "filthy," without the parson 
and his fee. When you analyze your objection to the story 
(as I have tried to do for you) you will find that it all crys- 
tallizes into that — the absence of the parson. I don't envy 
you your view of the matter, and I really don't think you 
greatly enjoy it yourself. I forgot to say: Suppose they had 
been two men, two partners in hunting, mining, or explor- 
ing, as frequently occurs. Would the bed-pan suggestion 
have come to you ? Did it come to you when you read of the 
slow, but not uniform, starvation of Greeley's party in the 
arctic.^ Of course not. Then it is a matter, not of bed-pans, 



44 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

but of sex-exposure (unauthorized by the church), of prud- 
ery — of that artificial thing, the "sense of shame," of 
which the great Greeks knew nothing; of which the great 
Japanese know nothing; of which Art knows nothing. Dear 
Doctor, do you really put trousers on your piano-legs? 
Does your indecent intimacy with your mirror make you 
blush? 

There, there's the person whom I've been waiting for 
(I'm to take her to dinner, and I'm not married to even so 
much of her as her little toe) has come; and until you offend 
again, you are immune from the switch. May all your 
brother Philistines have to "Kiss the place to make it 
well." 

Pan is dead ! Long live Bed-Pan ! 

Yours ever, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &0' £^ 
Washington, My DEAR STERLING, 

I send back the poems, with a few suggestions. You grow 
great so rapidly that I shall not much longer dare to touch 
your work. I mean that. 

Your criticisms of Stedman's Anthology are just. But 
equally just ones can be made of any anthology. None of 
them can suit any one. I fancy Stedman did not try to 
"live up" to his standard, but to make representativey 
though not always the best^ selections. It would hardly do 
to leave out Whitman, for example. We may not like him; 
thank God, we don't; but many others — the big fellows 
too — do; and in England he is thought great. And then 
Stedman has the bad luck to know a lot of poets person- 
ally — many bad poets. Put yourself in his place. Would 
you leave out me if you honestly thought my work bad? 



February 17, 
1 901 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 45 

In any compilation we will all miss some of our favor- 
ites — and find some of the public's favorites. You miss 
from Whittier "Joseph Sturge" — I the sonnet "Forgive- 
ness," and so forth. Alas, there is no universal standard! 

Thank you for the photographs. Miss * * * is a pretty 
girl, truly, and has the posing instinct as well. She has the 
placeof honor on my mantel. * * * But what scurvy knave 
has put the stage-crime into her mind? If you know that 
life as I do you will prefer that she die, poor girl. 

It is no trouble, but a pleasure, to go over your verses — 
I am as proud of your talent as if I'd made it. 

Sincerely yours, 
[over] Ambrose Bierce. 

About the rhymes in a sonnet: 



'Regular," or 


"English" 


Modern 


Italian form 


form 


English 


(Petrarch): 


(Shakspear's): 


I 


I 


I 


2 


1 


2 


2 


1 


I 


I 


I 


2 


I 


I 


3 


2 


2 


4 


2 


2 


3 


I 


I 


4 


Two or three 


3 


5 
6 


rhymes; any 


4 


arrangement 


5 


5 




3 


6 




4 


7 




5 


7 





There are good reasons for preferring the regular Italian 
form created by Petrarch — who knew a thing or two; and 
sometimes good reasons for another arrangement — of the 
sestet rhymes. If one should sacrifice a great thought to be 
like Petrarch one would not resemble him. A. B. 



46 ^^^ Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Washington, D. C, My DEAR STERLING, 

May 2 

1901! I am sending to the "Journal" your splendid poem on 
Memorial Day. Of course I can't say what will be its fate. 
I am not even personally acquainted with the editor of the 
department to which it goes. But if he has not the brains to 
like it he is to send it back and I'll try to place it elsewhere. 
It is great — great! — the loftiest note that you have struck 
and held. 

Maybe I owe you a lot of letters. I don't know— my corres- 
pondence all in arrears and I've not the heart to take it up. 

Thank you for your kind words of sympathy.* I'm hit 
harder than any one can guess from the known facts — am 
a bit broken and gone gray of it all. 

But I remember you asked the title of a book of syno- 
nyms. It is "Roget's Thesaurus," a good and useful book. 

The other poems I will look up soon and consider. I've 
made no alterations in the "Memorial Day" except to 
insert the omitted stanza. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
£«> <&«» &^ 

Washington, My DEAR STERLING, 

^^ ^' I send the poems with suggestions. There's naught to say 
about 'em that I've not said of your other work. Your 
"growth in grace" (and other poetic qualities) is some- 
thing wonderful. You are leaving my other "pupils" so 
far behind that they are no longer "in it." Seriously, you 
"promise" better than any of the new men in our litera- 
ture — and perform better than all but Markham in his 
lucid intervals, alas, too "rare. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

*Concerning the death of his son Leigh. 



1901. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 47 

My dear Sterling, 

I enclose a proof of the poem* — all marked up. The poem Washington, 
was offered to the Journal, but to the wrong editor, I would 1901." ' 
not offer it to him in whose department it could be used, 
for he once turned down some admirable verses of my 
friend Scheffauer which I sent him. I'm glad the Journal is 
not to have it, for it now goes into the Washington Post — 
and the Post into the best houses here and elsewhere — a 
good, clean, unyellow paper. I'll send you some copies with 
the poem. 

I think my marks are intelligible — I mean my remarks. 

Perhaps you'll not approve all, or anything, that I did to 

the poem; I'll only ask you to endure. When you publish in 

covers you can restore to the original draft if you like. I had 

not time (after my return from New York) to get your 

approval and did the best and the least I could. 

* * * 

My love to your pretty wife and sister. Let me know how 
hard you hate me for monkeying with your sacred lines. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

Yes, your poem recalled my "Invocation" as I read it; 
but it is better, and not too much like —hardly like at all 
except in the "political" part. Both, in that, are character- 
ized, I think, by decent restraint. How * * * would, at 
those places, have ranted and chewed soap! — a superior 
quality of soap, I confess. A. B. 

s<^ &^ £^ 
My dear Sterling, 

I am glad my few words of commendation were not un- 1825 Nineteenth St., 
pleasing to you. I meant them all and more. You ought to Washington d. c. 

♦"Memorial Day." June 30, 1901. 



48 The LeUers of Ambrose Bierce 

have praise, seeing that it is all you got. The "Post," like 
most other newspapers, "don't pay for poetry." What a 
damning confession! It means that the public is as insen- 
sible to poetry as a pig to — well, to poetry. To any sane 
mind such a poem as yours is worth more than all the other 
contents of a newspaper for a year. 

I've not found time to consider your " bit of blank " yet — 
at least not as carefully as it probably merits. 

My relations with the present editor of the Examiner are 
not unfriendly, I hope, but they are too slight to justify 
me in suggesting anything to him, or even drawing his 
attention to anything. I hoped you would be sufficiently 
" enterprising " to get your poem into the paper if you cared 
to have it there. I wrote Dr. Doyle about you. He is a dear 
fellow and you should know each other. As to Scheffauer, 
he is another. If you want him to see your poem why not 
send it to him? But the last I heard he was very ill. I'm 
rather anxious to hear more about him. 

It was natural to enclose the stamps, but I won't have 
it so — so there! as the women say. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &C» &€» 
1825 Nineteenth St., My DEAR STERLING, 

Washington, D. c' Here is the bit of blank. When are we to see the book? 
July i5> Needless question — when you can spare the money to pay 
for publication, I suppose, if by that time you are am- 
bitious to achieve public inattention. That's my notion of 
encouragement — I like to cheer up the young author as he 
sets his face toward "the peaks of song." 

Say, that photograph of the pretty sister — the one with a 
downward slope of the eyes — is all faded out. That is a 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 49 

real misfortune: it reduces the sum of human happiness 
hereabout. Can't you have one done in fast colors and let 
me have it? The other is all right, but that is not the one 
that I like the better for my wall. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &9m S^ 

My dear Sterling, 
I enclose the poems with a few suggestions. They require TheOiympia, 

1-1 • • • r 1 1 ij U "U 1 r 1 " A ^ Washington, D. C, 

little criticism of the sort that would be nelprul. As to December 16, 
their merit I think them good, but not great. I suppose you ^9°^- 
do not expect to write great things every time. Yet in the 
body of your letter (of Oct. 22) you do write greatly — and 
say that the work is "egoistic" and "unprintable." If it* 
were addressed to another person than myself I should say 
that it is "printable" exceedingly. Call it what you will, 
but let me tell you it will probably be long before you write 
anything better than some — many — of these stanzas. 

You ask if you have correctly answered your own ques- 
tions. Yes; in four lines of your running comment: 

" I suppose that I'd do the greater good in the long run by 
making my work as good poetry as possible." 

* * * 

Of course I deplore your tendency to dalliance with the 
demagogic muse. I hope you will not set your feet in the 
dirty paths — leading nowhither — of social and political 
"reform". . . . I hope you will not follow * * * in making 
a sale of your poet's birthright for a mess of "popularity." 
If you do I shall have to part company with you, as I have 
done with him and at least one of his betters, for I draw the 
line at demagogues and anarchists, however gifted and how- 
ever beloved. 

*"Dedication" poem to Ambrose Bierce. 



50 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Let the "poor" alone— they are oppressed by nobody but 
God. Nobody hates them, nobody despises." The rich " love 
them a deal better than they love one another. But I'll not 
go into these matters; your own good sense must be your 
salvation if you are saved. I recognise the temptations of 
environment: you are of San Francisco, the paradise of ig- 
norance, anarchy and general yellowness. Still, a poet is not 
altogether the creature of his place and time— at least not 
of his to-day and his parish. 

By the way, you say that * * * is your only associate 
that knows anything of literature. She is a dear girl, but 
look out for her; she will make you an anarchist if she can, 
and persuade you to kill a President or two every fine 
morning. I warrant you she can pronounce the name of 
McKinley's assassin to the ultimate zed, and has a little 
graven image of him next her heart. 

Yes, you can republish the Memorial Day poem without 
the Post's consent — could do so in " book form " even if the 
Post had copyrighted it, which it did not do. I think the 
courts have held that in purchasing work for publication in 
his newspaper or magazine the editor acquires no right in 
it, except for that purpose. Even if he copyright it that is 
only to protect him from other newspapers or magazines; 
the right to publish in a book remains with the author. 
Better ask a lawyer though — preferably without letting 
him know whether you are an editor or an author. 

I ought to have answered (as well as able) these questions 
before, but I have been ill and worried, and have written 
few letters, and even done little work, and that only of the 
pot-boiling sort. 

My daughter has recovered and returned to Los Angeles. 

Please thank Miss * * * for the beautiful photographs — 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 5 1 

I mean for being so beautiful as to " take" them, for doubt- 
less I owe their possession to you. 

I wrote Doyle about you and he cordially praised your 
work as incomparably superior to his own and asked that 
you visit him. He's a lovable fellow and you'd not regret 
going to Santa Cruz and boozing with him. 

Thank you for the picture of Grizzly and the cub of him. 

Sincerely yours, with best regards to the pretty ever-so- 
much-better half of you, Ambrose Bierce. 

pc *********** 

&^ &^ &^ 
My dear Sterling, 

Where are you going to stop? — I mean at what stage of ^''^^3f;l['JJ'n'*i3 c 
development? I presume you have not a "whole lot" of March 15, 
poems really writ, and have not been feeding them to me, ^^°^' 
the least good first, and not in the order of their produc- 
tion. So it must be that you are advancing at a stupendous 
rate. This last* beats any and all that went before — or I 
am bewitched and befuddled. I dare not trust myself to say 
what I think of it. In manner it is great, but the greatness 
of the theme! — that is beyond anything. 

It is a new field, the broadest yet discovered. To para- 
phrase Coleridge, 

You are the first that ever burst 
Into that silent [unknownl sea— 

a silent sea because no one else has burst into it in full song. 
True, there have been short incursions across the " border," 
but only by way of episode. The tremendous phenomena of 
Astronomy have never had adequate poetic treatment, 
their meaning adequate expression. You must make it your 

*"The Testimony of the Suns." 



52 The Letters ofjlmbrose Bierce 

own domain. You shall be the poet of the skies, the prophet 
of the suns. Don't fiddle-faddle with such infinitesimal and 
tiresome trivialities as (for example) the immemorial squab- 
bles of " rich " and " poor " on this " mote in the sun-beam. " 
(Both "classes," when you come to that, are about equally 
disgusting and unworthy — there's not a pin's moral differ- 
ence between them.) Let them cheat and pick pockets and 
cut throats to the satisfaction of their base instincts, but do 
thou regard them not. Moreover, by that great law of change 
which you so clearly discern, there can be no permanent 
composition of their nasty strife." Settle" it how they will — 
another beat of the pendulum and all is as before; and ere 
another, Man will again be savage, sitting on his naked 
haunches and gnawing raw bones. 

Yes, circumstances make the "rich" what they are. And 
circumstances make the poor what they are. I have known 
both, long and well. The rich — while rich — are a trifle 
better. There's nothing like poverty to nurture badness. 
But in this country there are no such "classes" as "rich" 
and "poor": as a rule, the wealthy man of to-day was a 
poor devil yesterday; the poor devils of to-day have an 
equal chance to be rich to-morrow — or would have if they 
had equal brains and providence. The system that gives 
them the chance is not an oppressive one. Under a really 
oppressive system a salesman in a village grocery could not 
have risen to a salary of one million dollars a year because 
he was worth it to his employers, as Schwab has done. 
True, some men get rich by dishonesty, but the poor com- 
monly cheat as hard as they can and remain poor — thereby 
escaping observation and censure. The moral difference be- 
tween cheating to the limit of a small opportunity and 
cheating to the limit of a great one is to me indiscernable. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 53 

The workman who "skimps his work" is just as much a 
rascal as the "director" who corners a crop. 

As to "Socialism." I am something of a Socialist myself; 
that is, I think that the principle, which has always co- 
existed with competition, each safeguarding the other, may 
be advantageously extended. But those who rail against 
"the competitive system," and think they suffer from it, 
really suffer from their own unthrift and incapacity. For 
the competent and provident it is an ideally perfect system. 
As the other fellows are not of those who effect permanent 
reforms, or reforms of any kind, pure Socialism is the dream 
of a dream. 

But why do I write all this. One's opinions on such mat- 
ters are unaffected by reason and instance; they are born of 
feeling and temperament. There is a Socialist diathesis, as 
there is an Anarchist diathesis. Could you teach a bulldog 
to retrieve, or a sheep to fetch and carry .^ Could you make 
a " born artist " comprehend a syllogism .? As easily persuade 
a poet that black is not whatever color he loves. Somebody 
has defined poetry as "glorious nonsense." It is not an al- 
together false definition, albeit I consider poetry the flower 
and fruit of speech and would rather write gloriously than 
sensibly. But if poets saw things as they are they would 
write no more poetry. 

Nevertheless, I venture to ask you: Cant you see in the 
prosperity of the strong and the adversity of the weak a 
part of that great beneficent law, "the survival of the 
fittest"? Don't you see that such evils as inhere in "the 
competitive system" are evils only to individuals, but 
blessings to the race by gradually weeding out the incom- 
petent and their progeny? 

I've done, i' faith. Be any kind of 'ist or 'er that you will, 



54 'T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

but don't let it get into your ink. Nobody is calling you to 
deliver your land from Error's chain. What we want of you 
is poetry, not politics. And if you care for fame just have 
the goodness to consider if any "champion of the poor" 
has ever obtained it. From the earliest days down to Mas- 
sanielo, Jack Cade and Eugene Debs the leaders and 
prophets of " the masses " have been held unworthy. And 
with reason too, however much injustice is mixed in with 
the right of it. Eventually the most conscientious, popular 
and successful "demagogue" comes into a heritage of in- 
famy. The most brilliant gifts cannot save him. That will 
be the fate of Edwin Markham if he does not come out o' 
that, and it will be the fate of George Sterling if he will not 
be warned. 

You think that "the main product of that system" (the 
" competitive ") " is the love of money. " What a case of the 
cart before the horse! The love of money is not the product, 
but the root, of the system — not the effect, but the cause. 
When one man desires to be better off than another he 
competes with him. You can abolish the system when you 
can abolish the desire — when you can make man as Nature 
did not make him, content to be as poor as the poorest. Do 
away with the desire to excel and you may set up your 
Socialism at once. But what kind of a race of sloths and 
slugs will you have.'' 

But, bless me, I shall never have done if I say all that 
comes to me. 

Why, of course my remarks about * * * were facetious — 
playful. She really is an anarchist, and her sympathies are 
with criminals, whom she considers the "product" of the 
laws, but — well, she inherited the diathesis and can no 
more help it than she can the color of her pretty eyes. But 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 55 

she is a child — and except in so far as her convictions make 
her impossible they do not count. She would not hurt a 
fly — not even if, like the toad, it had a precious jewel in its 
head that it did not work for. But I am speaking of the 
* * * that / knew. If I did not know that the anarchist 
leopard's spots "will wash," your words would make me 
think that she might have changed^^It does not matter 
what women think, if thinking it may be called^and * * * 
will never be other than lovable. 

Lest you have not a copy of the verses addressed to me I 
enclose one that I made myself. Of course their publication 
could not be otherwise than pleasing to me if you care to do 
it. You need not fear the "splendid weight" expression, 
and so forth — there is nothing "conceited" in the poem. 
As it was addressed to me, I have not criticised it —I cant. 
And I guess it needs no criticism. 

I fear for the other two-thirds of this latest poem. If you 
descend from Arcturus to Earth, from your nebulae to your 
neighbors, from Life to lives, from the measureless immen- 
sities of space to the petty passions of us poor insects, won't 
you incur the peril of anti-climax.^ I doubt if you can touch 
the "human interest" after those high themes without an 
awful tumble. I should be sorry to see the poem "peter 
out," or "soak in." It would be as if Goethe had let his 
"Prologue in Heaven" expire in a coon song. You have 
reached the "heights of dream" all right, but how are you 
to stay there to the end? By the way, you must perfect 
yourself in Astronomy, or rather get a general knowledge of 
it, which I fear you lack. Be sure about the pronunciation 
of astronomical names. 

I have read some of Jack London's work and think it 
clever. Of Whitaker I never before heard, I fear. If London 



56 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

wants to criticise your "Star poem" what's the objection? 
I should not think, though, from his eulogism of * * *, that 
he is very critical. * * * 

Where are you to place Browning? Among thinkers. In 
his younger days, when he wrote in English, he stood among 
the poets. I remember writing once— of the thinker :" There's 
nothing more obscure than Browning except blacking." I'll 
stand to that. 

No, don't take the trouble to send me a copy of these 
verses: I expect to see them in a book pretty soon. * * * 
Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce. 
&^ &^ &^ 

TheOlympia, DeAR StERLING, 

as '"8t^n>^^^_^^-> J ^j^ gjg^j ^Q know that you too have a good opinion of 
^902. that poem.* One should know about one's own work. Most 
writers think their work good, but good writers know it. 
Pardon me if I underrated your astronomical knowledge. 
My belief was based on your use of those names. I never 
met with the spelling "Betelgeux"; and even if it is correct 
and picturesque I'd not use it if I were you, for it does not 
quite speak itself, and you can't afford to jolt the reader's 
attention from your thought to a matter of pronunciation. 
In my student days we, I am sure, were taught to say 
Procy'on. I don't think I've heard it pronounced since, and 
I've no authority at hand. Ifyou are satisfied withPro'cyon 
I suppose it is that. But your pronunciation was Aldeb'aran 
or your meter very crazy indeed. I asked (with an interro- 
gation point) if it were not Aldeba'ran— and I think it is. 
Fomalhaut I don't know about; I thought it French and 
masculine. In that case it would, I suppose, be "ho," not 
"hote." 

*"The Testimony of the Suns." 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bterce 57 

Don't cut out that stanza, even if "clime" doesn't seem 
to me to have anything to do with duration. The stanza is 
good enough to stand a blemish. 

" Ye stand rebuked by suns who claim " — I was wrong in 
substituting "that" for "who," not observing that it would 
make it ambiguous. I merely yielded to a favorite impulse: 
to say "that" instead of "who," and did not count the 
cost. 

Don't cut out any stanza — if you can't perfect them let 
them go imperfect. 

"Without or genesis or end." 

"Devoid of birth, devoid of end." 
These are not so good as 

"Without beginning, without end"; — I submit them to 
suggest a way to overcome that identical rhyme. All you 
have to do is get rid of the second "without. " I should not 
like "impend." 

Yes, I vote for Orion's sword of suns. "Cimetar" sounds 
better, but it is more specific — less generic. It is modern — 
or, rather, less ancient than "sword," and makes one think 
of Turkey and the Holy Land. But "sword" — there were 
swords before Homer. And I don't think the man who 
named this constellation ever saw a curved blade. And yet, 
and yet — "cimetar of suns" is "mighty catchin'." 

No, indeed, I could not object to your considering the 
heavens in a state of war. I have sometimes fancied I could 
hear the rush and roar of it. Why, a few months ago I began 
a sonnet thus: 

"Not as two erring spheres together grind, 
With monstrous ruin, in the vast of space, 
Destruction born of that malign embrace — 
Their hapless peoples all to death consigned— "etc. 



58 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

I've been a star-gazer all my life — from my habit of being 
"out late," I guess; and the things have always seemed to 
me alive. 

The change in the verses ad meum^ from ''thy clearer 
light" to ''the clearer light" may have been made modestly 
or inadvertently — I don't recollect. It is, of course, no 
improvement and you may do as you please. I'm uniformly 
inadvertent, but intermittently modest. 

* * * 

A class of stuff that I can't (without " trouble in the office ") 
write my own way I will not write at all. So I'm writing 
very little of anything but nonsense. * * * 
With best regards to Mrs. Sterling and Miss Marian I am 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
Leigh died a year ago this morning. I wish I could stop 
counting the days. 

So &^ &^ 

TheOlympia, DeAR STERLING, 

as ing on,^^_. ^^, ^j| Hght — I Only Wanted you to be sure about those 
1902. names of stars; it would never do to be less than sure. 

After all our talk (made by me) I guess that stanza would 
better stand as first written. "Clime"— climate— connotes 
temperature,weather, and so forth, in ordinary speech, but 
a poet may make his own definitions, I suppose, and compel 
the reader to study them out and accept them. 

Your misgiving regarding your inability to reach so high 
a plane again as in this poem is amusing, but has an ele- 
ment of the pathetic. It certainly is a misfortune for a 
writer to do his l^est work early; but I fancy you'd better 
trust your genius and do its bidding whenever the monkey 
chooses to bite. "The Lord will provide." Of course you 



'T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 59 

have read Stockton's story "His Wife's Deceased Sister." 
But Stockton gets on very well, despite "The Lady or the 
Tiger." I've a notion that you'll find other tragedies among 
the stars if earth doesn't supply you with high enough 
themes. 

Will I write a preface for the book.'' Why, yes, if you think 
me competent. Emerson commands us to "hitch our wagon 
to a star?" and, egad! here's a whole constellation — a uni- 
verse — of stars to draw mine! It makes me blink to think 
of it. 

O yes, I'd like well enough to "leave the Journal," but — 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

S^ &9» Si^ 

My dear Sterling, 

If rejection wounded, all writers would bleed at every pore. TheOiympia, 
Nevertheless, not my will but thine be done. Of course I J^J^^rngton, d. a 
shall be glad to go over your entire body of work again and ^9°^- 
make suggestions if any occur to me. It will be no trouble — 
I could not be more profitably employed than in critically 
reading you, nor more agreeably. 

* * * 

Of course your star poem has one defect — if it is a de- 
fect — that limits the circle of understanding and admir- 
ing readers — its lack of "human interest." We human 
insects, as a rule, care for nothing but ourselves, and think 
that is best which most closely touches such emotions and 
sentiments as grow out of our relations, the one with 
another. I don't share the preference, and a few others do 
not, believing that there are things more interesting than 
men and women. The Heavens, for example. But who 
knows, or cares anything about them — even knows the 



6o T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

name of a single constellation? Hardly any one but the 
professional astronomers — and there are not enough of 
them to buy your books and give you fame. I should be 
sorry not to have that poem published — sorry if you did 
not write more of the kind. But while it may impress and 
dazzle " the many" it will not win them. They want you to 
finger their heart-strings and pull the cord that works their 
arms and legs. So you must finger and pull — too. 

The Chateau Yquem cam.e all right, and is good. Thank 
you for it — albeit I'm sorry you feel that you must do 
things like that. It is very conventional and, I fear, 
"proper." However, I remember that you used to do so 
when you could not by any stretch of imagination have felt 
that you were under an "obligation." So I guess it is all 
right— just your way of reminding me of the old days. 
Anyhow, the wine is so much better than my own that I've 
never a scruple when drinking it. 

Has "Maid Marian" a photograph of me? — I don't 
remember. If not I'll send her one; I've just had some 
printed from a negative five or six years old. I've renounced 
the photograph habit, as one renounces other habits when 
age has made them ridiculous — or impossible. 

Send me the typewritten book when you have it complete. 
Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
£«» &^ s^ 

Washington, My DEAR STERLING, 

"^"19^2! I suppose you are in Seattle, but this letter will keep till 
your return. 

I am delighted to know that I am to have "the book" so 
soon, and will give it my best attention and (if you still 
desire) some prefatory lines. Think out a good title and I 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 6i 

shall myself be hospitable to any suggestion of my daemon 
in the matter. He has given me nothing for the star poem 
yet. * * * 

You'll "learn in suffering what you teach in song," all 
right; but let us hope the song will be the richer for it. It 
will be. For that reason I never altogether "pity the sor- 
rows" of a writer — knowing they are good for him. He 
needs them in his business. I suspect you must have shed a 
tear or two since I knew you. 

I'm sending you a photograph, but you did not tell me if 
Maid Marian the Superb already has one — that's what I 
asked you, and if you don't answer I shall ask her. 

* * * 

Yes, I am fairly well, and, though not "happy, "content. 
But I'm dreadfully sorry about Peterson. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

I am about to break up my present establishment and 

don't know where my next will be. Better address me " Care 

N. Y. American and Journal Bureau, Washington, D. C." 

You see I'm still chained to the oar of yellow journalism, 

but it is a rather light servitude. 

&^ &^ se^ 
Dear Sterling, 

I fancy you must fear by this time that I did not get the Address me at 
poems, but I did. I'll get at them, doubtless, after awhile, Washington.'^D. c. 
though a good deal of manuscript — including a couple of December 20, 
novels! — is ahead of them; and one published book of bad 
poems awaits a particular condemnation. 

I'm a little embarrassed about the preface which I'm to 
write. I fear you must forego the preface or I the dedica- 



6i 'The Letters of Ambrose Bterce 

tion. That kind of " cooperation " doesn't seem in very good 
taste: it smacks of "mutual admiration" in the bad sense, 
and the reviewers would probably call it "log-rolling." Of 
course it doesn't matter too much what the reviewers say, 
but it matters a lot what the intelligent readers think; and 
your book will have no others. I really shouldn't like to 
write the preface of a book dedicated to me, though I did 
not think of that at first. 

The difficulty could be easily removed by not dedicating 
the book to me were it not that that would sacrifice the 
noble poem with my name atop of it. That poem is itself 
sufficiently dedicatory if printed by itself in the forepages 
of the book and labeled "Dedication — To Ambrose 
Bierce." I'm sure that vanity has nothing to do, or little 
to do, with my good opinion of the verses. And, after all, 
they show that I have said to you all that I could say to the 
reader in your praise and encouragement. What do you 
think? 

As to dedicating individual poems to other fellows, I have 
not the slightest hesitancy in advising you against it. The 
practice smacks of the amateur and is never, I think, pleas- 
ing to anybody but the person so honored. The custom has 
fallen into "innocuous desuetude" and there appears to be 
no call for its revival. Pay off your obligations (if such there 
be) otherwise. You may put it this way if you like: The 
whole book being dedicated to me, no part of it can be 
dedicated to another. Or this way: Secure in my exalted 
position I don't purpose sharing the throne with rival (and 
inferior) claimants. They be gam doodled! 

Seriously — but I guess it is serious enough as it stands. 
It occurs to me that in saying: "no part of it can be dedi- 
cated to another" I might be understood as meaning: "no 



*The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 62 

part of it must be," etc. No; I mean only that the dedica- 
tion to another would contradict the dedication to me. The 
two things are (as a matter of fact) incompatible. 

Well, if you think a short preface by me preferable to the 
verses with my name, all right; I will cheerfully write it, 
and that will leave you free to honor your other friends if 
you care to. But those are great lines, and implying, as they 
do, all that a set preface could say, it seems to me that they 

ought to stand. 

* * * 

Maid Marian shall have the photograph. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &9^ £«» 

My dear Sterling, 
You are a brick. You shall do as you will. My chief reluc- 1321 Yale street, 

, . ^ . , , 7 • 1 1 Washington, D. C, 

tance is that it it become known, or wben it becomes known, March i, 
there may ensue a suspicion of my honesty in praising you ^^qj- 
a.ndyour book; for critics and readers are not likely to look 
into the matter of dates. For your sake I should be sorry to 
have it thought that my commendation was only a log- 
rolling incident; for myself, I should care nothing about it. 
This eel is accustomed to skinning. 

It is not the least pleasing of my reflections that my 
friends have always liked my work — or me — well enough 
to want to publish my books at their own expense. Every- 
thing that I have written could go to the public that way 
if I would consent. In the two instances in which I did con- 
sent they got their money back all right, and I do not doubt 
that it will be so in this; for if I did not think there was at 
least a little profit in a book of mine I should not offer it to 
a publisher. "Shapes of Clay" ought to be published in 



64 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

California, and it would have been long ago if I had not 
been so lazy and so indisposed to dicker with the publishers. 
Properly advertised — which no book of mine ever has 
been — it should sell there if nowhere else. Why, then, do 
/ not put up the money? Well, for one reason, I've none to 
put up. Do you care for the other reasons? 

But I must make this a condition. If there is a loss, /am 
to bear it. To that end I shall expect an exact accounting 
from your Mr. Wood, and the percentage that SchefF. pur- 
poses having him pay to me is to go to you. The copyright 
is to be mine, but nothing else until you are entirely re- 
couped. But all this I will arrange with Scheff., who, I take 
it, is to attend to the business end of the matter, with, of 
course, your assent to the arrangements that he makes. 

I shall write Scheff. to-day to go ahead and make his con- 
tract with Mr. Wood on these lines. Scheff. appears not to 
know who the "angel" in the case is, and he need not, 
unless, or until, you want him to. 

I've a pretty letter from Maid Marian in acknowledg- 
ment of the photograph. I shall send one to Mrs. Sterling 
at once, in the sure and certain hope of getting another. It 
is good of her to remember my existence, considering that 
your scoundrelly monopoly of her permitted us to meet so 
seldom. I go in for a heavy tax on married men who live 
with their wives. 

"She holds no truce with Death or Peace" means that 
with one of them she holds no truce; "nor" makes it mean 
that she holds no truce with either. The misuse of "or" (its 
use to mean "nor") is nearly everybody's upsetting sin. So 
common is it that "nor" instead usually sounds harsh. 

I omitted the verses on "Puck," not because Bunner is 
dead, but because his work is dead too, and the verses 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 6^ 

appear to lack intrinsic merit to stand alone. I shall per- 
haps omit a few more when I get the proofs (I wish you 
could see the bushels I've left out already) and add a few 
serious ones. 

I'm glad no end that you and Scheff. have met. I'm fond 
of the boy and he likes me, I think. He too has a book of 
verses on the ways, and I hope for it a successful launching. 
I've been through it all; some of it is great in the matter of 
thews and brawn; some fine. 

Pardon the typewriter; I wanted a copy of this letter. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
s<^ &o» &^ 
Dear Sterling, 

It is good to hear from you again and to know that the The New York 

1,. 1 1 i-iijri-t- "American" Bureau, 

book IS so nearly complete as to be m the hands or the pub- Washington, d. c, 
lishers. I dare say they will not have it, and you'll have to J"'^^ ^3. 
get it out at your own expense. When it comes to that I 
shall hope to be of service to you, as you have been to me. 

So you like Scheff. Yes, he is a good boy and a good friend. 
I wish you had met our friend Dr. Doyle, who has now 
gone the long, lone journey. It has made a difference to me, 
but that matters little, for the time is short in which to 
grieve. I shall soon be going his way. 

No, I shall not put anything about the * * * person into 
"Shapes of Clay." His offence demands another kind of 
punishment, and until I meet him he goes unpunished. I 
once went to San Francisco to punish him (but that was in 
hot blood) but * * * of "The Wave" told me the man was 
a hopeless invalid, suffering from locomotor ataxia. I have 
always believed that until I got your letter and one from 
Scheff. Is it not so? — or was it not? If not he has good 



66 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

reason to think me a coward, for his offence was what men 
are killed for; but of course one does not kill a helpless per- 
son, no matter what the offence is. If* * * Hed to me I am 
most anxious to know it; he has always professed himself a 
devoted friend. 

The passage that you quote from Jack London strikes me 
as good. I don't dislike the word "penetrate" — rather like 
it. It is in frequent use regarding exploration and discov- 
ery. But I think you right about "rippling"; it is too lively 
a word to be outfitted with such an adjective as "melan- 
choly." I see London has an excellent article in "The 
Critic " on " The Terrible and Tragic in Fiction. " He knows 
how to think a bit. 

What do I think of Cowley-Brown and his " Goosequill " ? 
I did not know that he had revived it; it died several years 
ago. I never met him, but in both Chicago and London 
(where he had "The Philistine, " or " The Anti-Philistine, " 
I do not at the moment remember which) he was most kind 
to me and my work. In one number of his magazine — the 
London one — he had four of my stories and a long article 
about me which called the blushes to my maiden cheek like 
the reflection of a red rose in the petal of a violet. Natur- 
ally I think well of Cowley-Brown. 

You make me sad to think of the long leagues and the 
monstrous convexity of the earth separating me from your 
camp in the redwoods. There are few things that I would 
rather do than join that party; and I'd be the last to strike 
my tent and sling my swag. Alas, it cannot be — not this 
year. My outings are limited to short runs along this coast. 
I was about to set out on one this morning; and wrote a 
hasty note to Scheffin consequence of my preparations. In 
five hours I was suffering from asthma, and am now con- 



The LeUe?^s of Ambrose Bierce 67 

fined to my room. But for eight months of the year here I 

am immune — as I never was out there. 

* * * 

You will have to prepare yourself to endure a good deal of 
praise when that book is out. One does not mind when one 
gets accustomed to it. It neither pleases nor bores; you 
will have just no feeling about it at all. But if you really 
care for my praise I hope you have quoted a bit of it at the 
head of those dedicatory verses, as I suggested. That will 
give them a raison d' etre. 

With best regards to Mrs. Sterling and Katie I am sin- 
cerely yours, Ambrose Bierce. 

P. S.— If not too much trouble you may remind Dick 
Partington and wife that I continue to exist and to remem- 
ber them pleasantly. 

do> £«» £«» 

Dear Scheff: 

I got the proofs yesterday, and am returning them by this N- ^- "American" 
mail. The "report of progress" is every way satisfactory, Washington, d. c, 
and I don't doubt that a neat job is being done. [July, 1903J. 

The correction that you made is approved. I should have 
wanted and expected you to make many corrections and 
suggestions, but that I have had a purpose in making this 
book— namely, that it should represent my work at its aver- 
age. In pursuance of this notion I was not hospitable even 
to suggestions, and have retained much work that I did not 
myself particularly approve; some of it trivial. You know 
I have always been addicted to trifling, and no book from 
which trivialities were excluded would fairly represent me. 

I could not commend this notion in another. In your work 
and Sterling's I have striven hard to help you to come as 
near to perfection as we could, because perfection is what 



68 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

you and he want, and as young writers ought to want, the 
character of your work being higher than mine. I reached 
my hterary level long ago, and seeing that it is not a high 
one there would seem to be a certain affectation, even a 
certain dishonesty, in making it seem higher than it is by 
republication of my best only. Of course I have not carried 
out this plan so consistently as to make the book dull: I 
had to "draw the line" at that. 

I say all this because I don't want you and Sterling to 
think that I disdain assistance: I simply decided before- 
hand not to avail myself of its obvious advantages. You 
would have done as much for the book in one way as you 
have done in another. 

I'll have to ask you to suggest that Mr. Wood have a man 
go over all the matter in the book, and see that none of the 
pieces are duplicated, as I fear they are. Reading the titles 
will not be enough: I might have given the same piece two 
titles. It will be necessary to compare first lines, I think. 
That will be drudgery which I'll not ask you to undertake: 
some of Wood's men, or some of the printer's men, will do 
it as well; it is in the line of their work. 

The "Dies Irae" is the most earnest and sincere of relig- 
ious poems; my travesty of it is mere solemn fooling, which 
fact is "given away" in the prose introduction, where I 
speak of my version being of possible service in the church! 
The travesty is not altogether unfair — it was inevitably 
suggested by the author's obvious inaccessibility to humor 
and logic — a peculiarity that is, however, observable in all 
religious literature, for it is a fundamental necessity to the 
religious mind. Without logic and a sense of the ludicrous a 
man is religious as certainly as without webbed feet a bird 
has the land habit. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 69 

It is funny, but I am a "whole lot" more interested in 
seeing your cover of the book than my contents of it. I 
don't at all doubt — since you dared undertake it — that 
your great conception will find a fit interpreter in your 
hand; so my feeling is not anxiety. It is just interest — pure 
interest in what is above my powers, but in which jyoz/ can 
work. By the way, Keller, of the old "Wasp" was not the 
best of its cartoonists. The best — the best of ^2// cartoonists 
if he had not died at eighteen — was another German, 
named Barkhaus. I have all his work and have long cher- 
ished a wish to republish it with the needed explanatory 
text — much of it being "local " and " transient. " Some day, 
perhaps — most likely not. But Barkhaus was a giant. 

How I envy you! There are few things that would please 
me so well as to "drop in" on you folks in Sterling's camp. 
Honestly, I think all that prevents is the (to me) killing 
journey by rail. And two months would be required, going 
and returning by sea. But the rail trip across the continent 
always gives me a horrible case of asthma, which lasts for 
weeks. I shall never take /^^/ journey again if I can avoid 
it. What times you and they will have about the campfire 
and the table! I feel like an exile, though I fear I don't look 
and act the part. 

I did not make the little excursion I was about to take 
when I wrote you recently. Almost as I posted the letter I 
was taken ill and have not been well since. 

Poor Doyle! how thoughtful of him to provide for the 

destruction of my letters! But I fear Mrs. Doyle found 

some of them queer reading — if she read them. 

* * * 

Great Scott! if ever they begin to publish mine there will 
be a circus ! For of course the women will be the chief sin- 



yo The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

ners, and — well, they have material a-plenty; they can 
make many volumes, and your poor dead friend will have 
so bad a reputation that you'll swear you never knew him. 
I dare say, though, you have sometimes been indiscreet, 
too. My besetting sin has been in writing to my girl friends 
as if they were sweethearts — the which they'll doubtless 
not be slow to affirm. The fact that they write to me in the 
same way will be no defense; for when I'm worm's meat I 
can't present the proof— and wouldn't if I could. Maybe it 
won't matter — if I don't turn in my grave and so bother 
the worms. 

As Doyle's "literary executor" I fear your duties will be 
light: he probably did not leave much manuscript. I judge 
from his letters that he was despondent about his work and 
the narrow acceptance that it had. So I assume that he did 
not leave much more than the book of poems, which no 
publisher would (or will) take. 

You are about to encounter the same stupid indifference 
of the public — so is Sterling. I'm sure of Sterling, but don't 
quite know how it will affect jyoz/. You're a pretty sturdy 
fellow, physically and mentally, but this may hurt horribly. 
I pray that it do not, and could give you — perhaps have 
given you — a thousand reasons why it should not. You are 
still young and your fame may come while you live; but 
you must not expect it now, and doubtless do not. To me, 
and I hope to you, the approval of one person who knows 
is sweeter than the acclaim of ten thousand who do not — 
whose acclaim, indeed, I would rather not have. If you do 
not feel this in every fibre of your brain and heart, try to 
learn to feel it — practice feeling it, as one practices some 
athletic feat necessary to health and strength. 

Thank you very much for the photograph. You are grow- 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 71 

ing too infernally handsome to be permitted to go about 
unchained. If I had your " advantages " of youth and come- 
liness I'd go to the sheriff" and ask him to lock me up. That 
would be the honorable thing for you to do, if you don't 
mind. God be with you — but inattentive. 

Ambrose Bierce. 

£«» £«» s^ 

Dear Sterling, 

I fear that among the various cares incident to my depar- Aurora, 
ture from Washington I forgot, or neglected, to acknowl- West Virginia 
edge the Joaquin Miller book that you kindly sent me. I ^"^s^^'^'S. 
was glad to have it. It has all his characteristic merits and 
demerits — among the latter, his interminable prolixity, the 
thinness of the thought, his endless repetition of favorite 
words and phrases, many of them from his other poems, his 
mispronunciation, his occasional flashes of prose, and so forth. 

Scheff tells me his book is out and mine nearly out. But 
what of yours? I do fear me it never will be out if you rely 
upon its "acceptance" by any American publisher. If it 
meets with no favor among the publisher tribe we must 
nevertheless get it out; and you will of course let me do what 
I can. That is only tit for tat. But tell me about it. 

I dare say Scheff, who is clever at getting letters out of 
me — the scamp! — has told you of my being up here atop 
of the Alleghenies, and why I am here. I'm having a rather 
good time. * * * Can you fancy me playing croquet, cards, 
lawn — no, thank God, I've escaped lawn tennis and golf! 
In respect of other things, though, I'm a ghttering speci- 
men of the Summer Old Man. 

T)\dyou have a good time in the redwoods? 

Please present my compliments to Madame (and Made- 
moiselle) Sterling. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce. 



72 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Aurora, DeAR StERLING, 
West Virginia, _. , . , - 

Septembers, i rctum the verscs with a rew suggestions. 

1903- I'ni sorry your time for poetry is so brief. But take your 
pencil and figure out how much you would write in thirty 
years (I hope you'll live that long) at, say, six lines a day. 
You'll be surprised by the result — and encouraged. Re- 
member that 50,000 words make a fairly long book. 

You make me shudder when you say you are reading the 
"Prattle" of years. I haven't it and should hardly dare to 
read it if I had. There is so much in it to deplore —so much 
that is not wise — so much that was the expression of a 
mood or a whim — so much was not altogether sincere — so 
many half-truths, and so forth. Make allowances, I beg, 
and where you cannot, just forgive. 

Scheff has mentioned his great desire that you join the 
Bohemian Club. I know he wants me to advise you to do 
so. So I'm between two fires and would rather not advise 
at all. There are advantages (obvious enough) in belong- 
ing; and to one of your age and well grounded in sobriety 
and self-restraint generally, the disadvantages are not so 
great as to a youngster like Scheff. (Of course he is not so 
young as he seems to me; but he is younger by a few years 
and a whole lot of thought than you.) 

The trouble with that kind of club — with any club — is 
the temptation to waste of time and money; and the 
danger of the drink habit. If one is proof against these a 
club is all right. I belong to one myself in Washington, and 
at one time came pretty near to "running" it. 



* * * 



No, I don't think Scheff's view of Kiplingjust. He asked 
me about putting that skit in the book. It was his view and, 
that being so, I could see no reason for suppressing it in 



'The Letters ofAfnbrose Bierce 73 

deference to those who do not hold it. I Hke free speech, 
though I'd not accord it to my enemies if I were Dictator, 
I should not think it for the good of the State to let * * * 
write verses, for example. The modern fad Tolerance does 
not charm me, but since it is all the go I'm willing that my 
friends should have their fling. 

I dare say SchefF is unconscious of Kipling's paternity in 
the fine line In "Back, back to Nature": 

"Loudly to the shore cries the surf upon the sea." 

But turn to "The Last Chanty," in "The Seven Seas," fill 
your ears with it and you'll write just such a line yourself. 

* * * 

God be decent to you, old man. 



Ambrose Bierce. 



£«» £^ &^ 
Dear Sterling, 



Aurora, 



I have yours of the 5th. Before now you have mine of West Virginia, 

J September 12, 

some date. ^ ^ ^ 1903. 

I'm glad you like London; I've heard he is a fine fellow 
and have read one of his books — " The Son of the Wolf, " I 
think is the title — and it seemed clever work mostly. The 
general impression that remains with me is that it is always 
winter and always night in Alaska. 

* * * will probably be glad to sell his scrap-book later, to 
get bread. He can't make a living out of the labor unions 
alone. I wish he were not a demgagoue and would not, as 
poor Doyle put it, go a-whoring after their Muse. When he 
returns to truth and poetry I'll receive him back into favor 
and he may kick me if he wants to. 

No, I can't tell you how to get "Prattle"; if I could I'd 



74 Tf^^ Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

not be without it myself. You ask me when I began it in the 
"Examiner." Soon after Hearst got the paper — I don't 
know the date — they can tell you at the office and will 
show you the bound volumes. 

I have the bound volumes of the " Argonaut " and" Wasp ' ' 
during the years when I was connected with them, but my 
work in the "Examiner" (and previously in the "News 
Letter" and the London "Fun" and "Figaro" and other 
papers) I kept only in a haphazard and imperfect way. 

I don't recollect giving SchefFany "epigram" on woman 
or anything else. So I can't send it to you. I amuse myself 
occasionally with that sort of thing in the "Journal" 
("American") and suppose Hearst's other papers copy 
them, but the "environment" is uncongenial and uninspir- 
ing. 

Do I think extracts from "Prattle" would sell? I don't 
think anything of mine will sell. I could make a dozen 
books of the stuff that I have "saved up" — have a few 
ready for publication now — but all is vanity so far as pro- 
fitable publication is concerned. Publishers want nothing 
from me but novels — and I'll die first. 

Who is * * * — and why? It is good of London to defend 
me against him. I fancy all you fellows have a-plenty of de- 
fending me to do, though truly it is hardly worth while. All 
my life I have been hated and slandered by all manner of 
persons except good and intelligent ones; and I don't great- 
ly mind. I knew in the beginning what I had to expect, and 
I know now that, like spanking, it hurts (sometimes) but 
does not harm. And the same malevolence that has sur- 
rounded my life will surround my memory if I am remem- 
bered. Just run over in your mind the names of men who 
have told the truth about their unworthy fellows and about 



The Ljetters of Ambrose Bierce 75 

human nature "as it was given them to see it." They are 
the bogie-men of history. None of them has escaped vih- 
fication. Can poor httle I hope for anything better? When 
you strike you are struck. The world is a skunk, but it has 
rights; among them that of retaliation. Yes, you deceive 
yourself if you think the little fellows of letters "like" you, 
or rather if you think they will like you when they know 
how big you are. They will lie awake nights to invent new 
lies about you and new means of spreading them without 
detection. But you have your revenge: in a few years they'll 
all be dead —just the same as if you had killed them. Bet- 
ter yet, you'll be dead yourself. So — you have my entire 
philosophy in two words: "Nothing matters." 

Reverting to SchefF. What he has to fear (if he cares) is 
not incompetent criticism, but public indifference. That 
does not bite, but poets are an ambitious folk and like the 
limehght and the center of the stage. Maybe SchefF is dif- 
ferent, as I know you are. Try to make him so if he isn't. 
* * * Wise poets write for one another. If the pubhc hap- 
pens to take notice, well and good. Sometimes it does — 
and then the wise poet would a blacksmith be. But this 
screed is becoming an essay. 

Please give my love to all good Sterlings — those by birth 
and those by marriage. * * * 

My friends have returned to Washington, and I'm having 
great times climbing peaks (they are knobs) and exploring 
gulches and canons — for which these people have no 
names — poor things. My dreamland is still unrevisited. 
They found a Confederate soldier over there the other day, 
with his rifle alongside. I'm going over to beg his pardon. 

Ever yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 



76 'The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Washington, D. C. My DEAR STERLING, 

October 12, I have Jack London's books — the one from you and the 
1903-] one from him. I thank you and shall find the time to read 
them. I've been back but a few days and find a brace of 
dozen of books "intitualed" "Shapes of Clay." That the 
splendid work done by Schefi^ and Wood and your other 
associates in your labor of love is most gratifying to me 
should "go without saying." Surely / am most fortunate 
in having so good friends to care for my interests. Still, 
there will be an aching void in the heart of me until your 
book is in evidence. Honest, I feel more satisfaction in the 
work of you and Scheff than in my own. It is through you 
two that I expect my best fame. And how generously you 
accord it! — unlike certain others of my "pupils," whom I 
have assisted far more than I did you. 

My trip through the mountains has done my health 
good — and my heart too. It was a "sentimental journey" 
in a different sense from Sterne's. Do you know, George, 
the charm of a new emotion? Of course you do, but at my 
age I had thought it impossible. Well, I had it repeatedly. 
Bedad, I think of going again into my old "theatre of 
war," and setting up a cabin there and living the few days 
that remain to me in meditation and sentimentalizing. But 
I should like you to be near enough to come up some Satur- 
day night with some'at to drink. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&9^ &^ &^ 
N. Y. Journal Office, My DEAR STERLING, 

as '"|^°^^j^^^ ^^-^ j'l^ indebted to you for two letters — awfully good ones. 

1903- In the last you tell me that your health is better, and I can 

see for myself that your spirits are. This you attribute to 

exercise, correctly, no doubt. You need a lot of the open 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 77 

air — we all do. I can give myself hypochondria in forty- 
eight hours by staying in-doors. The sedentary life and ab- 
stracted contemplation of one's own navel are good for 
Oriental gods only. We spirits of a purer fire need sunlight 
and the hills. My own recent wanderings afoot and horse- 
back in the mountains did me more good than a sermon. 
And you have "the hills back of Oakland"! God, what 
would I not give to help you range them, the dear old things ! 
Why, I know every square foot of them from Walnut Creek 
to Niles Canon. Of course they swarm with ghosts, as do all 
places out there, even the streets of San Francisco; but I 
and my ghosts always get on well together. With the female 
ones my relations are sometimes a bit better than they were 
with the dear creatures when they lived. 

I guess I did not acknowledge the splendidly bound 
" Shapes " that you kindly sent, nor the Jack London books. 
Much thanks. 

I'm pleased to know that Wood expects to sell the whole 
edition of my book, but am myself not confident of that. 

So we are to have your book soon. Good, but I don't like 
your indifi^erence to its outward and visible aspect. Some 
of my own books have offended, and continue to offend, 
in that way. At best a book is not too beautiful; at worst it 
is hideous. Be advised a bit by Scheff in this matter; his 
taste seems to me admirable and I'm well pleased by his 
work on the "Shapes"; even his covers, which I'm sorry to 
learn do not please Wood, appear to me excellent. I ap- 
proved the design before he executed it — in fact chose it 
from several that he submitted. Its only fault seems to me 
too much gold leaf, but that is a fault "on the right side." 
In that and all the rest of the work (except my own) ex- 
perts here are delighted. I gave him an absolutely free hand 



78 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

and am glad I did. I don't like the ragged leaves, but he 
does not either, on second thought. The public — the read- 
ing public — I fear does, just now. 

I'll get at your new verses in a few days. It will be, as al- 
ways it is, a pleasure to go over them. 

About "Prattle." I should think you might get help in 
that matter from Oscar T. Schuck, 2916 Laguna St. He 
used to suffer from "Prattle" a good deal, but is very 
friendly, and the obtaining it would be in the line of his 
present business. 

How did you happen to hit on Markham's greatest two 
lines — but I need not ask that — from "The Wharf of 
Dreams".'* 

Well, I wish I could think that those lines of mine in 
"Geotheos" were worthy to be mentioned with Keats 
"magic casements" and Coleridge's "woman wailing for 
her demon lover." But I don't think any lines of anybody 
are. I laugh at myself to remember that Geotheos, never 
before in print I believe, was written for E. L. G. Steele to 
read before a "young ladies' seminary" somewhere in the 
cow counties! Like a man of sense he didn't read it. I don't 
share your regret that I have not devoted myself to serious 
poetry. I don't think of myself as a poet, but as a satirist; 
so I'm entitled to credit for what little gold there may be 
in the mud I throw. But if I professed gold-throwing, the 
mud which I should surely mix with the missiles would 
count against me. Besides, I've a preference for being the 
first man in a village, rather than the second man in Rome. 
Poetry is a ladder on which there is now no room at the 
top — unless you and Scheff throw down some of the chaps 
occupying the upper rung. It looks as if you might, but I 
could not. When old Homer, Shakspeare and that crowd — 



'The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 79 

building better than Ozymandias — say: "Look on my 
works, ye mighty, and despair!" I, considering myself spe- 
cially addressed, despair. The challenge of the wits does 
not alarm me. 



* * * 



As to your problems in grammar. 

If you say: "There is no hope or fear" you say that one 
of them does not exist. In saying: "There is no hope ;zor 
fear" you say that both do not exist — which is what you 
mean. 

"Not to weary you, I shall say that I fetched the book 
from his cabin." Whether that is preferable to "I will say" 
depends on just what is meant; both are grammatical. The 
"shall" merely indicates an intention to say; the "will" 
implies a certain shade of concession in saying it. 

It is no trouble to answer such questions, nor to do any- 
thing else to please you. I only hope I make it clear. 

I don't know if all my "Journal" work gets into the 
"Examiner," for I don't see all the issues of either paper. 
I'm not writing much anyhow. They don't seem to want 
much from me, and their weekly check is about all that I 
want from them. 



sfs * * 



No, I don't know any better poem of Kipling than "The 
Last Chanty." Did you see what stuff of his Prof. Harry 
Thurston Peck, the Hearst outfit's special literary censor, 
chose for a particular commendation the other day? Yet 
Peck is a scholar, a professor of Latin and a writer of mer- 
ited distinction. Excepting the ability to write poetry, the 
ability to understand it is, I think, the rarest of intellectual 
gifts. Let us thank "whatever gods may be" that we have 
it, if we haven't so very much else. 



8o The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

I've a lovely birch stick a-seasoning for you — cut it up 
in the Alleghanies. * * * 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &^ £•» 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

1903! I return the verses — with apology for tardiness. I've been 
"full up" with cares. * * * 

I would not change "Religion" to "Dogma" (if I were 
you) for all "the pious monks of St. Bernard." Once you 
begin to make concessions to the feelings of this person or 
that there is no place to stop and you may as well hang up 
the lyre. Besides, Dogma does not "seek"; it just impu- 
dently declares something to have been found. However, 
it is a small matter — nothing can destroy the excellence of 
the verses. I only want to warn you against yielding to a 
temptation which will assail you all your life — the tempta- 
tion to "edit" your thought for somebody whom it may 
pain. Be true to Truth and let all stand from under. 

Yes, I think the quatrain that you wrote in Col. Eng's 
book good enough to go in your own. But I'd keep "dis- 
cerning," instead of substituting "revering." In art dis- 
cernment carries reverence. 

Of course I expect to say something of Scheff's book, but 
in no paper with which I have a present connection can I 
regularly "review" it. Hearst's papers would give it in- 
comparably the widest publicity, but they don't want "re- 
views" from me. They have Millard, who has already re- 
viewed it — right well too — and Prof. Peck — who possibly 
might review it if it were sent to him. "Prof. Harry Thurs- 
ton Peck, care of 'The American,' New York City." Men- 
tion it to Scheff. I'm trying to find out what I can do. 



1903. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 8 1 

I'm greatly pleased to observe your ability to estimate 
the relative value of your own poems — a rare faculty. "To 
Imagination" is, / think, the best of all your short ones. 

I'm impatient for the book. It, too, I shall hope to write 
something about. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce. 

s^ &^ &^ 
Dear George, 

A thousand cares have prevented my writing to you — and Navarre Hotel and 

1 • • 1 << 1 1 )> T> T Importation Co., 

Scheff. And this is to be a busy day. But I want to say Seventh Avenue 
that I've not been unmindful of your kindness in sending Ne^Yor?' 
the book — which has hardly left my pocket since I got it. December 26, 
And I've read nothing in it more than once, excepting the 
"Testimony." That I've studied, line by line — and "pre- 
cept by precept" —finding in it always "something rich 
and strange." It is greater than I knew; it is the greatest 

ever ! 

I'm saying a few words about it in tomorrow's "Ameri- 
can" — would that I had a better place for what I say and 
more freedom of saying. But they don't want, and won't 
have, "book reviews" from me; probably because I will 
not undertake to assist their advertising publishers. So I 
have to disguise my remarks and work up to them as parts 
of another topic. In this case I have availed myself of my 
favorite "horrible example," Jim Riley, who ought to be 
proud to be mentioned on the same page with you. After 
all, the remarks may not appear; I have the littlest editor 
that ever blue-penciled whatever he thought particularly 

dear to the writer. I'm here for only a few days, I hope. 

^ ^ ^ 

I want to say that you seem to me greatest when you 
have the greatest subject — not flowers, women and all 
that, — but something above the flower-and-woman belt — 



82 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

something that you see from altitudes from which //6rv are un- 
seen and unsmelled.Your poetry is incomparable with that 
of our other poets, but your thought, philosophy, —that is 
greater yet. But I'm writing this at a desk in the reading 
room of a hotel; when I get home I'll write you again. 

I'm concerned about your health, of which I get bad re- 
ports. Can't you go to the mesas of New Mexico and round 
up cattle for a year or two — or do anything that will per- 
mit, or compel, you to sleep out-of-doors under your fav- 
orite stars — something that will not permit you to enter a 
house for even ten minutes? You say no. Well, some day 
you'll have to — when it is too late — like Peterson, my 
friend Charley Kaufman and so many others, who might 
be living if they had gone into that country in time and 
been willing to make the sacrifice when it would have done 
good. You can go now as well as then\ and if now you'll 
come back well, if then, you'll not only sacrifice your salary, 
"prospects," and so forth, but lose your life as well. I know 
that kind of life would cure you. I've talked with dozens of 
men whom it did cure. 

You'll die of consumption if you don't. Twenty-odd years 
ago I was writing articles on the out-of-doors treatment for 
consumption. Now — only just now — the physicians are 
doing the same, and establishing out-of-door sanitaria for 
consumption. 

You'll say you haven't consumption. I don't say that you 
have. But you will have if you listen to yourself saying: "I 
can't do it." * * * 

Pardon me, my friend, for this rough advice as to your 
personal affairs: I am greatly concerned about you. Your life 
is precious to me and to the world. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 



January 8, 
1904. 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 83 

My dear George, 

Thank you so much for the books and the hiscription — Washington, d. c, 
which (as do all other words of praise) affects me with a sad 
sense of my shortcomings as writer and man. Things of 
that kind from too partial friends point out to me with a 
disquieting significance what I ought to be; and the con- 
trast with what I am hurts. Maybe you feel enough that 
way sometimes to understand. You are still young enough 
to profit by the pain; my character is made — wy oppor- 
tunities are gone. But it does not greatly matter — nothing 
does. I have some little testimony from you and Scheff and 
others that I have not lived altogether in vain, and I know 
that I have greater satisfaction in my slight connection 
with your and their work than in my own. Also a better 
claim to the attention and consideration of my fellow-men. 

Never mind about the "slow sale" of my book; I did not 
expect it to be otherwise, and my only regret grows out of 
the fear that some one may lose money by the venture. // 
is not to be you. You know I am still a little "in the dark" as 
to what you have really done in the matter. I wish you 
would tell me if any of your own money went into it. The 
contract with Wood is all right; it was drawn according to 
my instructions and I shall not even accept the small roy- 
alty allowed me if anybody is to be "out. " l{ you are to be 
out I shall not only not accept the royalty, but shall reim- 
burse you to the last cent. Do you mind telling me about 
all that ? In any case don't " buy out Wood " and don't pay 
out anything for advertising nor for anything else. 

The silence of the reviewers does not trouble me, any 
more than it would you. Their praise of my other books 
never, apparently, did me any good. No book published in 
this country ever received higher praise from higher sources 



84 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

than my first collection of yarns. But the book was never a 
"seller," and doubtless never will be. That / like it fairly 
well is enough. You and I do not write books to sell; we 
write — or rather publish —just because we like to. We've 
no right to expect a profit from fun. 

It is odd and amusing that you could have supposed that 
I had any other reason for not writing to you than a fixed 
habit of procrastination, some preoccupation with my 
small affairs and a very burdensome correspondence. Prob- 
ably you could give me a grievance by trying hard, but if 
you ever are conscious of not having tried you may be sure 
that I haven't the grievance. 

I should have supposed that the author of "Viverols" 
and several excellent monographs on fish would have un- 
derstood your poems. (O no; I don't mean that your Muse 
is a mermaid.) Perhaps he did, but you know how temper- 
ate of words men of science are by habit. Did you send a 
book to Garrett Serviss.^ I should like to know what he 
thinks of the "Testimony." As to Joaquin, it is his detest- 
able habit, as it was Longfellow's, to praise all poetry sub- 
mitted to him, and he said of Madge Morris's coyote poem 
the identical thing that he says of your work. Sorry to dis- 
illusionize you, but it is so. 

As to your health. You give me great comfort.* * * But it 
was not only from Scheff that I had bad accounts of you and 
"your cough." Scheff, indeed, has been reticent in the 
matter, but evidently anxious; and you yourself have 
written despondently and "forecasted" an early passing 
away. If nothing is the matter with you and your lungs 
some of your friends are poor observers. I'm happy to have 
your testimony, and beg to withdraw my project for your re- 
covery. You whet my appetite for that new poem. The lines 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 85 

"The blue-eyed vampire, sated at her feast, 
Smiles bloodily against the leprous moon" 

give me the shivers. Gee ! they're awful ! Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ s^ &^ 

Dear George, 

* * * 

You should not be irritated by the " conspiracy of silence " Washington, d. c, 

•' ^ ■' February 5, 

about me on the part of the "Call," the "Argonaut" and 1904. 
other papers. Really my enemies are under no obligation to 
return good for evil; I fear I should not respect them if they 
did. * * *, his head still sore from my many beatings of 
that "distracted globe," would be a comic figure stammer- 
ing his sense of my merit and directing attention to the ex- 
cellence of the literary wares on my shelf. 

As to the pig of a public, its indifference to a diet of pearls — 
our pearls — was not unknown to me, and truly it does not 
trouble me anywhere except in the pocket. That pig, too, is 
not much beholden to me, who have pounded the snout of 
it all my life. Why should it assist in the rite.^ Its indif- 
ference to your work constitutes a new provocation and 
calls for added whacks, but not its indifference to mine. 

The Ashton Stevens interview was charming. His finding 
you and Scheff together seems too idyllic to be true — I 
thought it a fake. He put in quite enough — too much — 
about me. As to Joaquin's hack at me — why, that was 
magnanimity itself in one who, like most of us, does not 
offset blame against praise, subtract the latter from the 
former and find matter for thanks in the remainder. You 
know "what fools we mortals be"; criticism that is not all 
honey is all vinegar. Nobody has more delighted than I in 
pointing out the greatness of Joaquin's great work ; but no- 



86 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

body than I has more austerely condemned * * *, his van- 
ity and the general humbugery that makes his prose so in- 
supportable. Joaquin is a good fellow, all the same, and you 
should not demand of him impossible virtues and a reach of 
reasonableness that is alien to him. 

* * * 

I have the books you kindly sent and have planted two or 
three in what I think fertile soil which I hope will produce a 
small crop of appreciation. 

* * * 

And the poem !* I hardly know how to speak of it. No 
poem in English of equal length has so bewildering a wealth 
of imagination. Not Spenser himself has flung such a pro- 
fusion of jewels into so small a casket. Why, man, it takes 
away the breath! I've read and reread — read it for the ex- 
pression and read it for the thought (always when I speak 
of the "thought" in your work I mean the meaning — 
which is another thing) and I shall read it many times more. 
And pretty soon I'll get at it with my red ink and see if I 
can suggest anything worth your attention. I fear not. 

* * * 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&9» &9» &^ 
"New York DeAR GeORGE, 

""^Office, I wrote you yesterday. Since then I have been rereading 
Washington, D. c, your letter. I wish you would not say so much about what I 

February 29, , 

1904. have done for you, and how much it was worth to you, and 
all that. I should be sorry to think that I did not do a little 
for you — I tried to. But, my boy, you should know that I 
don't keep that kind of service on sale. Moreover, I'm 

*" A Wine of Wizardry." 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 87 

amply repaid by whatjo^^ have done for me — 1 mean with 
your pen. Do you suppose / do not value such things? 
Does it seem reasonable to think me unpleasured by those 
magnificent dedicatory verses in your book? Is it nothing 
to me to be called " Master " by such as you ? Is my nature 
so cold that I have no pride in such a pupil? There is no 
obligation in the matter — certainly none that can be suf- 
fered to satisfy itself out of your pocket. 

You greatly overestimate the sums I spend in "charity." 
I sometimes help some poor devil of an unfortunate over 
the rough places, but not to the extent that you seem to 
suppose. I couldn't — I've too many regular, constant, 
legitimate demands on me. Those, mostly, are what keep 

me poor. 

* * * 

Maybe you think it odd that I've not said a word in print 
about any of your work except the "Testimony." It is not 
that I don't appreciate the minor poems — I do. But I don't 
like to scatter; I prefer to hammer on a single nail — to 
push one button until someone hears the bell. When the 
"Wine" is published I'll have another poem that is not 
only great, but striking — notable — to work on. However 
good, or even great, a short poem with such a title as 
" Poesy, " " Music, " " To a Lily, " "A White Rose, " and so 
forth, cannot be got into public attention. Some longer and 
more notable work, of the grander manner, may carry it, 
but of itself it will not go. Even a bookful of its kind will 
not. Not till you're famous. 

Your letter regarding your brother (who has not turned 
up) was needless — I could be of no assistance in procuring 
him employment. I've tried so often to procure it for others, 
and so vainly, that nobody could persuade me to try any 



88 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

more. I'm not fond of the character of suppliant, nor of 
being "turned down" by the little men who run this Gov- 
ernment. Of course I'm not in favor with this Administra- 
tion, not only because of my connection with Democratic 
newspapers, but because, also, I sometimes venture to dis- 
sent openly from the doctrine of the divinity of those in 
high station — particularly Teddy. 

I'm sorry you find your place in the office intolerable. 
That is "the common lot of all" who work for others. I 
have chafed under the yoke for many years — a heavier 
yoke, I think, than yours. It does not fit my neck anywhere. 
Some day perhaps you and I will live on adjoining ranches 
in the mountains — or in adjoining caves — " the world for- 
getting, by the world forgot." I have really been on the 
point of hermitizing lately, but I guess I'll have to continue 
to live like a reasonable human being a little longer until I 
can release myself with a conscience void of offense to my 
creditors and dependents. But "the call of the wild" 
sounds, even in my dreams. 

You ask me if you should write in "A Wine of Wizardry" 
vein, or in that of "The Testimony of the Suns." Both. I 
don't know in which you have succeeded the better. And I 
don't know anyone who has succeeded better in either. To 
succeed in both is a marvelous performance. You may say 
that the one is fancy, the other imagination, which is true, 
but not the whole truth. The "Wine" has as true imagina- 
tion as the other, and fancy into the bargain. I like your 
grandiose manner, and I like the other as well. In terms of 
another art I may say — rear great towers and domes. 
Carve, also, friezes. But I'd not bother to cut single finials 
and small decorations. However exquisite the workman- 
ship, they are not worth your present attention. If you 



'The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 89 

were a painter (as, considering your wonderful sense of 
color, you doubtless could have been) your large canvases 
would be your best. * * * 

I don't care if that satire of Josephare refers to me or not; 
it was good. He may jump on me if he wants to — I don't 
mind. All I ask is that he do it well. 

* * * 

I passed yesterday with Percival Pollard, viewing the 
burnt district of Baltimore. He's a queer duck whom I like, 
and he likes your work. I'm sending you a copy of "The 
Papyrus," with his "rehabilitation" of the odious Oscar 
Wilde. Wilde's work is all right, but what can one do with 
the work of one whose name one cannot speak before 
women? * * * 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &^ &9» 

Dear George, 

The " belatedness" of your letter only made me fear that Washington, d. c, 
I had offended you. Odd that we should have such views of 1504. 
each other's sensitiveness. 

About Wood. No doubt that he is doing all that he can, 
but — well, he is not a publisher. For example: He sent 
forty or fifty "Shapes" here. They lie behind a counter at 
the bookseller's — not even on the counter. There are prob- 
ably not a dozen persons of my acquaintance in Washing- 
ton who know that I ever wrote a book. Now bow are even 
these to know about //?«/ book? The bookseller does not ad- 
vertise the books he has on sale and the public does not go 
rummaging behind his counters. A publisher's methods are 
a bit different, naturally. 



90 T'he hiCtters of Ambrose Bierce 

Only for your interest I should not care if my books sold 

or not; they exist and will not be destroyed; every book will 

eventually get to somebody. 

* * * 

It seems to be a matter for you to determine — whether 
Wood continues to try to sell the book or it is put in other 
hands if he is ever tired of it. Remember, I don't care a rap 
what happens to the book except as a means of reimbursing 
you; I want no money and I want no glory. If you and 
Wood can agree, do in all things as you please. 

I return Wood's letters; they show what I knew before: 
that the public and the librarians would not buy that book. 
Let us discuss this matter no more, but at some time in 
the future you tell me how much you are out of pocket. 

Tour book shows that a fellow can get a good deal of glory 
with very little profit. You are now famous — at least on 
the Pacific Coast; but I fancy you are not any "for'arder" 
in the matter of wealth than you were before. I too have 
some reputation— a little wider, as yet, than yours.Well,my 
work sells tremendously — in Mr. Hearst's newspapers, at 
the price of a small fraction of one cent! Offered by itself, in 
one-dollar and two-dollar lots, it tempts nobody to fall over 
his own feet in the rush to buy. A great trade, this of ours! 

I note with interest the "notices" you send. The one by 
Monahan is amusing with its gabble about your "science." 
To most men, as to him, a mention of the stars suggests 
astronomy, with its telescopes, spectroscopes and so forth. 
Therefore it is "scientific." To tell such men that there is 
nothing of science in your poem would puzzle them greatly. 

I don't think poor Lang meant to do anything but his 
best and honestest. He is a rather clever and rather small 
fellow and not to be blamed for the limitations of his in- 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 91 

sight. I have repeatedly pointed out in print that it requires 
genius to discern genius at first hand. Lang has written 
almost the best, if not quite the best, sonnet in the lan- 
guage — yet he is no genius. 

* * * 

Why, of course — why should you not help the poor devil, 
* * *; I used to help him myself— introduced him to the 
public and labored to instruct him. Then — but it is un- 
speakable and so is he. He will bite your hand if you feed 

him, but I think I'd throw a crust to him myself. 

* * * 

No, I don't agree with you about Homer, nor "stand for" 
your implied view that narrative poetry is not "pure 
poetry." Poetry seems to me to speak with a thousand 
voices — "a various language. " The miners have a saying: 
"Gold is where you find it." So is poetry; I'm expecting to 
find it some fine day in the price list of a grocery store. I 

fancy _yo/i! could put it there. 

* * * 

As to Goethe, the more you read him, the better you 
will love Heine. 

Thank you for "A Wine of Wizardry" — amended. It 
seems to me that the fake dictum of " Merlin-sage " (I don't 
quite perceive the necessity of the hyphen) is better than 
the hackneyed Scriptural quotation. It is odd, but my 
recollection is that it was the "sick enchantress" who cried 
" unto Betelgeuse a mystic word. " Was it not so in the copy 
that I first had, or do I think so merely because the cry of 
one is more lone and awful than the cry of a number? 

I am still of the belief that the poem should have at least 
a few breaks in it, for I find myself as well as the public 
more or less — I, doubtless, less than the public — indis- 



May II, 

1904. 



92 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

posed to tackle solid columns of either verse or prose. I told 
you this poem "took away one's breath," — give a fellow, 
can't you, a chance to recover it now and again. 

"Space to breathe, how short soever." 

Nevertheless, not my will but thine be done, on earth as it 
is in San Francisco. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &^ Sum 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

To begin at the beginning, I shall of course be pleased to 

meet Josephare if he come this way; if only to try to solve 

the problem of what is in a fellow who started so badly and 

in so short a time was running well, with a prospect of 

winning "a place." Byron, you know, was the same way 

and Tennyson not so different. Still their start was not so 

bad as Josephare's. I freely confess that I thought him a 

fool. It is "one on me." 

* * * 

I wonder if a London house would publish "Shapes of 
Clay." Occasionally a little discussion about me breaks out 
in the London press, blazes up for a little while and "goes 
up in smoke. " I enclose some evidences of the latest one — 
which you may return if you remember to do so. The letter 
of "a deeply disappointed man" was one of rollicking 
humor suggested by some articles of Barr about me and a 
private intimation from him that I should publish some 
more books in London. 

Yes, I've dropped "The Passing Show" again, for the 
same old reason — wouldn't stand the censorship of my 
editor. I'm writing for the daily issues of The American, 
mainly, and, as a rule, anonymously. It's "dead easy" 
work. * * * 



'The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 93 

It is all right — that "cry unto Betelgeuse"; the "sick en- 
chantress" passage is good enough without it. I like the 
added lines of the poem. Here's another criticism: The 
"Without" and "Within," beginning the first and third 
lines, respectively, seem to be antithetic, when they are not, 
the latter having the sense of "into," which I think might, 
for clearness, be substituted for it without a displeasing 
break of the metre — a trochee for an iambus. 

Why should I not try "The Atlantic" with this poem? — 
if you have not already done so. I could write a brief note 
about it, saying what jyoz^ could not say, and possibly win- 
ning attention to the work. If you say so I will. It is impos- 
sible to imagine a magazine editor rejecting that amazing 
poem. I have read it at least twenty times with ever in- 
creasing admiration. 

Your book, by the way, is still my constant companion — 
I carry it in my pocket and read it over and over, in the 
street cars and everywhere. All the poems are good, though 
the "Testimony" and "Memorial Day" are supreme —the 
one in grandeur, the other in feeling. 

I send you a criticism in a manuscript letter from a friend 
who complains of your "obscurity," as many have the can- 
dor to do. It requires candor to do that, for the fault is in 
the critic's understanding. Still, one who understands Shak- 
speare and Milton is not without standing as a complain- 
ing witness in the court of literature. 

* * * 

My favorite translation of Homer is that of Pope, of 
whom it is the present fashion to speak disparagingly, as it 
is of Byron. I know all that can be said against them, and 
say some of it myself, but I wish their detractors had a little 
of their brains. I know too that Pope's translations of The 



94 Tf^^ Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Iliad and The Odyssey are rather paraphrases than trans- 
lations. But I love them just the same, while wondering 
(with you, doubtless) what so profoundly affected Keats 
when he "heard Chapman speak out loud and bold. " What- 
ever it was, it gave us what Coleridge pronounced the best 
sonnet in our language; and Lang's admiration of Homer 
has given us at least the next best. Of course there must be 
something in poems that produce poems — in a poet whom 
most poets confess their king. I hold (with Poe) that there 
is no such thing as a long poem — a poem of the length of an 
Epic. It must consist of poetic passages connected by reci- 
tativo yto use an opera word; but it is perhaps better for that. 
If the writer cannot write "sustained" poetry the reader 
probably could not read it. Anyhow, I vote for Homer. 

I am passing well, but shall soon seek the mountains, 
though I hope to be here when Scheff points his prow this 
way. Would that you were sailing with him! 

I've been hearing all about all of you, for Eva Crawford 
has been among you "takin' notes," and Eva's piquant 
comments on what and whom she sees are delicious read- 
ing. I should suppose that you would appreciate Eva — 
most persons don't. She is the best letter writer of her sex — 
who are all good letter writers — and she is much beside. I 
may venture to whisper that you'd find her estimate of 
your work and personality "not altogether displeasing." 

Now that I'm about such matters, I shall enclose a note 
to my friend Dr. Robertson, who runs an insanery at Liver- 
more and is an interesting fellow with a ditto family and a 
library that will make you pea-green with envy. Go out 
and see him some day and take Scheff, or any friend, along — 
he wants to know you. You won't mind the facts that he 
thinks all poetry the secretion of a diseased brain, and that 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 95 

the only reason he doesn't think all brains (except his own) 
diseased is the circumstance that not all secrete poetry. 

* * * 

Seriously, he is a good fellow and full of various knowl- 
edges that most of us wot not of. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
&^ &^ &^ 
My dear George, 

I have a letter from * * *, who is in St. Louis, to which Washington, d. a 
his progress has been more leisurely than I liked, consider- 1904. 
ing that I am remaining away from my mountains only to 
meet him. However, he intimates an intention to come in a 
week. I wish you were with him. 

I am sending the W. of W. to Scribner's, as you suggest, 
and if it is not taken shall try the other mags in the order 
of your preference. But it's funny that you —you — should 
prefer the "popular" magazines and wish the work "illus- 
trated." Be assured the illustrations will shock you if you 

get them. 

* * * 

I understand what you say about being bored by the per- 
sons whom your work in letters brings about your feet. 
The most contented years of my life lately were the two or 
three that I passed here before Washington folk found out 
that I was an author. The fact has leaked out, and although 
not a soul of them buys and reads my books some of them 
bore me insupportably with their ignorant compliments 
and unwelcome attentions. I fancy I'll have to "move on." 

Tell Maid Marian to use gloves when modeling, or the 
clay will enter into her soul through her fingers and she 
become herself a Shape of Clay. My notion is that she 



g6 7'ie Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

should work in a paste made of ashes-of-roses moistened 

with nectar. 

* * * 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

P. S. Does it bore you that I like you to know my friends ? 
Professor * * *'s widow (and daughter) are very dear to 
me. She knows about you, and I've written her that I'd ask 
you to call on her. You'll like them all right, but I have 
another purpose. I want to know how they prosper; and 
they are a little reticent about that. Maybe you could as- 
certain indirectly by seeing how they live. I asked Grizzly 
to do this but of course he didn't, the shaggy brute that 
he is. A. B. 

&9» &^ S^ 

Haines' Falls, DeAR GeORGE, 
Greene Co., N. Y., , , . , . . . , 

August 4, I haven t written a letter, except on busmess, smce leav- 
1904. ing Washington, June 30 — no, not since Scheff's arrival 
there. I now return to earth, and my first call is on you. 

You'll be glad to know that I'm having a good time here 
in the Catskills. I shall not go back so long as I can find an 

open hotel. 

* * * 

I should like to hear from you about our — or rather 
your — set in California, and especially about you. Do you 
still dally with the Muse? Enclosed you will find two damn- 
ing evidences of additional incapacity. Harper s now have 
"A Wine of Wizardry," and they too will indubitably turn 
it down. I shall then try The Atlantic^ where it should have 
gone in the first place; and I almost expect its acceptance. 

I'm not working much — just loafing on my cottage 
porch; mixing an occasional cocktail; infesting the forests, 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 97 

knife in hand, in pursuit of the yellow-birch sapling that 
furnishes forth the walking stick like yours; and so forth. I 
knocked off work altogether for a month when SchefF came, 
and should like to do so for you. Are you never going to 
visit the scenes of your youth? 

* * * 

It is awfully sad — that latest visit of Death to the heart 
and home of poor Katie Peterson. Will you kindly assure 
her of my sympathy.^ 

Love to all the Piedmontese. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

£«» &9^ £>0 

My dear George, 

First, thank you for the knife and the distinction of mem- Haines' Fails, 
bership in the Ancient and Honorable Order of Knifers. I August 27,' 
have made little use of the blades and other appliances, but '904. 
the corkscrew is in constant use. 

I'm enclosing a little missive from the editor of Harper s. 
Please reserve these things awhile and sometime I may ask 
them of you to "point a moral or adorn a tale" about that 
poem. If we can't get it published I'd like to write for some 
friendly periodical a review of an unpublished poem, with 
copious extracts and a brief history of it. I think that would 
be unique. 

I find the pictures of Marian interesting, but have the self- 
denial to keep only one of them — the prettiest one of course. 
Your own is rather solemn, but it will do for the title page 
of the Testimony, which is still my favorite reading. 

Scheff showed me your verses on Katie's baby, and Katie 
has since sent them. They are very tender and beautiful. I 
would not willingly spare any of your "personal" poems — 
least of all, naturally, the one personal to me. Your success 



98 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

with them is exceptional. Yet the habit of writing them is 
perilous, as the many failures of great poets attest — Mil- 
ton, for example, in his lines to Syriack Skinner, his lines 
to a baby that died a-bornin' and so forth. The reason is 
obvious, and you have yourself, with sure finger, pointed 

it out: 

" Remiss the ministry they bear 

Who serve her with divided heart; 
She stands reluctant to impart 
Her strength to purpose, end, or care." 

When one is intent upon pleasing some mortal, one is less 
intent upon pleasing the immortal Muse. All this is said 
only by way of admonition for the future, not in criticism 
of the past. I'm a sinner myself in that way, but then I'm 
not a saint in any way, so my example doesn't count. 

I don't mind * * * calling me a " dignified old gentleman "— 
indeed, that is what I have long aspired to be, but have 
succeeded only in the presence of strangers, and not always 
then. * * * 

(I forgot to say that your poem is now in the hands of the 
editor of the Atlantic.) 

Your determination to "boom" me almost frightens me. 
Great Scott! you've no notion of the magnitude of the task 
you undertake; the labors of Hercules were as nothing to 
it. Seriously, don't make any enemies that way; it is not 
worth while. And you don't know how comfortable I am in 
my obscurity. It is like being in "the shadow of a great 
rock in a weary land." 

How goes the no sale of Shapes of Clay? I am slowly sav- 
ing up a bit of money to recoup your friendly outlay. 
That's a new thing for me to do — the saving, I mean — 
and I rather enjoy the sensation. If it results in making a 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 99 

miser of me you will have to answer for it to many a 
worthy complainant. 

Get thee behind me, Satan! — it is not possible for me to 
go to California yet. For one thing, my health is better here 
in the East; I have utterly escaped asthma this summer, 
and summer is my only "sickly season" here. In California 
I had the thing at any time o' year — even at Wright's. 
But it is my hope to end my days out there. 

I don't think Millard was too hard on Kipling; it was no 
"unconscious" plagiarism; just a "straight steal." 

About Prentice Mulford. I knew him but slightly and 
used to make mild fun of him as "Dismal Jimmy." That 
expressed my notion of his character and work, which was 
mostly prose platitudes. I saw him last in London, a mem- 
ber of the Joaquin Miller-Charles Warren Stoddard-Olive 
Harper outfit at 1 1 Museum Street, Bloomsbury Square. 
He married there a fool girl named Josie — forget her other 
name — with whom I think he lived awhile in hell, then 
freed himself, and some years afterward returned to this 
country and was found dead one morning in a boat at Sag 
Harbor. Peace to the soul of him. No, he was not a faker, 
but a conscientious fellow who mistook his vocation. 

My friends have returned to Washington, but I expect to 
remain here a few weeks yet, infesting the woods, devas- 
tating the mountain larders, supervising the sunsets and 
guiding the stars in their courses. Then to New York, and 
finally to Washington. Please get busy with that fame o' 
yours so as to have the wealth to come and help me loaf. 

I hope you don't mind the typewriter — / don't. 

Convey my love to all the sweet ladies of your entourage and 
make my compliments also to the Gang. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 



loo The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Washington, DeAR GeORGE, 

"°i904! Your latest was dated Sept. lo. I got it while alone in the 
mountains, but since then I have been in New York City 
and at West Point and — here. New York is too strenuous 

for me; it gets on my nerves. 

* * * 

Please don't persuade me to come to California — I mean 
don't try to, for I can't, and it hurts a little to say nay. 
There's a big bit of my heart there, but — O never mind the 
reasons; some of them would not look well on paper. One of 
them I don't mind telling; I would not live in a state under 
union labor rule. There is still one place where the honest 
American laboring man is not permitted to cut throats and 
strip bodies of women at his own sweet will. That is the 
District of Columbia. 

I am anxious to read Lilith; please complete it. 

I have another note of rejection for you. It is from * * *. 
Knowing that you will not bank on what he says about the 
Metropolitan, I enclose it. I've acted on his advising and 
sent the poem. It is about time for it to come back. Then I 
shall try the other magazines until the list is exhausted. 

Did I return your Jinks verses? I know I read them and 
meant to send them back, but my correspondence and my 
papers are in such hopeless disorder that I'm all at sea on 
these matters. For aught I know I may have elaborately 
"answered" the letter that I think myself to be answering 
now. I liked the verses very temperately, not madly. 

Of course you are right about the magazine editors not 
knowing poetry when they see it. But who does? I have not 
known more than a half-dozen persons in America that 
did, and none of them edited a magazine. 

* * * 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce loi 

No, I did not write the " Urus-Agricola-Acetes stuff," 
though it was written /or me and, I believe, at my sugges- 
tion. The author was "Jimmy" Bowman, of whose death 
I wrote a sonnet which is in Black Beetles. He and I used 
to have a lot of fun devising literary mischiefs, fighting 
sham battles with each other and so forth. He was a clever 
chap and a good judge of whiskey. 

Yes, in The Cynic's Dictionary I did "jump from A to 

M." I had previously done the stuff in various papers as 

far as M, then lost the beginning. So in resuming I re-did 

that part (quite differently, of course) in order to have the 

thing complete if I should want to make a book of it. I 

guess the Examiner isn't running much of it, nor much of 

anything of mine. 

* * * 

I like your love of Keats and the early Coleridge. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

£•» S9» £«» 

My dear Davis, 
The "bad eminence" of turning down Sterling's great TheN. y. 

, 'ii 1 1 • 1 r American Office, 

poem is one that you will have to share with some or your Washington, d. c, 
esteemed fellow magazinists — for examples, the editors of ^'^^°^^^ ^'^> 

o _ r ' 1904. 

the Atlantic, Harper's, Scribner's, The Century, and now 
the Metropolitan, all of the elite. All of these gentlemen, I 
believe, profess, as you do not, to know literature when 
they see it, and to deal in it. 

Well I profess to deal in it in a small way, and if Sterling 
will let me I propose some day to ask judgment between 
them and me. 

Even joz/ ask for literature — if my stories are literature, 
as you are good enough to imply. (By the way, all the lead- 



I02 Ti'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

ing publishers of the country turned down that book until 
they saw it published without them by a merchant in San 
Francisco and another sort of publishers in London, 
Leipzig and Paris.) Well, you wouldn't do a thing to one of 
my stories! 

No, thank you; if I have to write rot, I prefer to do it for 
the newspapers, which make no false pretences and are 
frankly rotten, and in which the badness of a bad thing 
escapes detection or is forgotten as soon as it is cold. 

I know how to write a story (of the " happy ending " sort) 
for magazine readers for whom literature is too good, but I 
will not do so so long as stealing is more honorable and in- 
teresting. 

I've offered you the best stuff to be had — Sterling's 
poem — and the best that I am able to make; and now you 
must excuse me. I do not doubt that you really think that 
you would take " the kind of fiction that made 'Soldiers 
and Civilians' the most readable book of its kind in this 
country," and it is nice of you to put it that way; but 
neither do I doubt that you would find the story sent a 
different kind of fiction and, like the satire which you re- 
turn to me, "out of the question." An editor who has a 
preformed opinion of the kind of stuff that he is going to get 
will always be disappointed with the stuff that he does get. 

I know this from my early experience as an editor — be- 
fore I learned that what I needed was, not any particular 
kind of stuff, but just the stuff of a particular kind of 
writer. 

All this without any feeling, and only by way of explain- 
ing why I must ask you to excuse me. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 103 



Dear George, 



* * 



Yes, I got and read that fool thing in the August Critic. Washington, d. c, 

Tri*' !• 1 • ^• T December 6, 

I found in it nothing worse than stupidity — no mahce. 1904. 
Doubtless you have not sounded the deeper deeps of stu- 
pidity in critics, and so are driven to other motives to 
explain their unearthly errors. I know from my own experi- 
ence of long ago how hard it is to accept abominable 
criticism, obviously (to the criticee) unfair, without attrib- 
uting a personal mean motive; but the attribution is nearly 
always erroneous, even in the case of a writer with so many 
personal enemies as I. You will do well to avoid that weak- 
ness of the tyro. * * * has the infirmity in an apparently 
chronic form. Poets, by reason of the sensibilities that 
make them poets, are peculiarly liable to it. I can't see any 
evidence that the poor devil of the Critic knew better. 

The Wine of Wizardry is at present at the Booklovers'. 
It should have come back ere this, but don't you draw any 
happy augury from that: I'm sure they'll turn it down, and 
am damning them in advance. 

I had a postal from * * * a few days ago. He was in Paris. 
I've written him only once, explaining by drawing his at- 
tention to the fact that one's reluctance to write a letter 
increases in the ratio of the square of the distance it has to 
go. I don't know why that is so, but it is — at least in my 
case. 

Yes, I'm in perfect health, barring a bit of insomnia at 
times, and enjoy life as much as I ever did — except when 
in love and the love prospering; that is to say, when it was 
new. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 



I04 ^^ Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

1904! This is the worst yet! This jobbernowl seems to think 
"The Wine of Wizardry" a story. It should "arrive" and 
be "dramatic" — the denouement being, I suppose, a par- 
ticularly exciting example of the "happy ending." 

My dear fellow, I'm positively ashamed to throw your 
pearls before any more of these swine, and I humbly ask 
your pardon for having done it at all. I guess the "Wine" 
will have to await the publication of your next book. 

But Td like to keep this fellow's note if you will kindly 
let me have it. Sometime, when the poem is published, I 
shall paste it into a little scrap book, with all the notes of 
rejection, and then if I know a man or two capable o^ 
appreciating the humor of the thing I can make merry over 
it with them. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
£•» &^ £o» 

TheArmy and DeAR GeORGE, 

Navy Club, . 

Washington, D. c, It's a long time since the date of your latest letter, but 

^ ^"a'ddres"*^ I'vc been doing two men's work for many weeks and have 

February 18, actually not found the leisure to write to my friends. As it 

is the first time that I've worked really hard for several 

years I ought not to complain, and don't. But I hope it will 

end with this session of Congress. 

I think I did not thank you for the additional copies of 
your new book — the new edition. I wish it contained the 
new poem, "A Wine of Wizardry." I've given up trying to 
get it into anything. I related my failure to Mackay, of 
"Success," and he asked to be permitted to see it. "No," I 
replied, "you too would probably turn it down, and I will 
take no chances of losing the respect that I have for you." 
And I'd not show it to him. He declared his intention of 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 105 

getting it, though — which was just what I wanted him to 
do. But I dare say he didn't. 

Yes, you sent me "The Sea Wolf." My opinion of it? 
Certainly — or a part of it. It is a most disagreeable book, 
as a whole. London has a pretty bad style and no sense of 
proportion. The story is a perfect welter of disagreeable in- 
cidents. Two or three (of the kind) would have sufficed to 
show the character of the man Larsen; and his own self- 
revealings by word of mouth would have "done the rest." 
Many of these incidents, too, are impossible — such as that 
of a man mounting a ladder with a dozen other men — more 
or less — hanging to his leg, and the hero's work of rerigging 
a wreck and getting it off a beach where it had stuck for 
weeks, and so forth. The "love" element, with its absurd 
suppressions and impossible proprieties, is awful. I confess 
to an overwhelming contempt for both the sexless lovers. 

Now as to the merits. It is a rattling good story in one 
way; something is "going on" all the time — not always 
what one would wish, but something. One does not go to 
sleep over the book. But the great thing — and it is among 
the greatest of things — is that tremendous creation. Wolf 
Larsen. If that is not a permanent addition to literature, it 
is at least a permanent figure in the memory of the reader. 
You "can't lose" Wolf Larsen. He will be with you to the 
end. So it does not really matter how London has ham- 
mered him into you. You may quarrel with the methods, 
but the result is almost incomparable. The hewing out and 
setting up of such a figure is enough for a man to do in one 
life-time. I have hardly words to impart my good judg- 
ment of that work. 

* * * 

That is a pretty picture of Phyllis as Cleopatra — whom I 



io6 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

think you used to call "the angel child" — as the Furies 

were called Eumenides. 

* * * 

I'm enclosing a review of your book in the St. Louis 
" Mirror," a paper always kindly disposed toward our little 
group of gifted obscurians. I thought you might not have 
seen it; and it is worth seeing. Percival Pollard sends it me; 
and to him we owe our recognition by the "Mirror." 

I hope you prosper apace. I mean mentally and spirit- 
ually; all other prosperity is trash. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
&^ &^ &^ 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

Ann! 1*7 

1905! I've reached your letter on my file. I wonder that I did, 
for truly I'm doing a lot of work — mostly of the pot- 
boiler, newspaper sort, some compiling of future — prob- 
ably very future — books and a little for posterity. 

Valentine has not returned the "Wine of Wizardry," but 
I shall tell him to in a few days and will then try it on the 
magazines you mention. If that fails I can see no objection 
to offering it to the English periodicals. 

I don't know about Mackay. He has a trifle of mine which 
he was going to run months ago. He didn't and I asked it 
back. He returned it and begged that it go back to him for 
immediate publication. It went back, but publication did 
not ensue. In many other ways he has been exceedingly 
kind. Guess he can't always have his way. 

* * * 

I read that other book to the bitter end — the "Arthur 
Sterling" thing. He is the most disagreeable character in 
fiction, though Marie Bashkirtseff and Mary McLean in 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 107 

real life could give him cards and spades. Fancy a poet, or 
any kind of writer, whom it hurts to think! What the devil 
are his agonies all about — his writhings and twistings and 
foaming at all his mouths? What would a poem by an in- 
tellectual epileptic like that be? Happily the author spares 
us quotation. I suppose there are Arthur Sterlings among 
the little fellows, but if genius is not serenity, fortitude and 
reasonableness I don't know what it is. One cannot even 
imagine Shakespeare or Goethe bleeding over his work and 
howling when "in the fell clutch of circumstance." The 
great ones are figured in my mind as ever smiling — a little 
sadly at times, perhaps, but always with conscious inacces- 
sibility to the pinpricking little Titans that would storm 
their Olympus armed with ineffectual disasters and pop- 
gun misfortunes. Fancy a fellow wanting, like Arthur Ster- 
ling, to be supported by his fellows in order that he may 
write what they don't want to read! Even Jack London 

would gag at such Socialism as that. 

* * * 

I'm going to pass a summer month or two with the Pol- 
lards, at Saybrook, Conn. How I wish you could be of the 
party. But I suppose you'll be chicken-ranching then, and 
happy enough where you are. I wish you joy of the venture 
and, although I fear it means a meagre living, it will prob- 
ably be more satisfactory than doubling over a desk in your 
uncle's of?.ce. The very name Carmel Bay is enchanting. 
I've a notion I shall see that ranch some day. I don't quite 
recognize the "filtered-through-the-emasculated-minds-of- 
about-six-fools " article from which you say I quote — don't 
remember it, nor remember quoting from it. 

I don't wonder at your surprise at my high estimate of 
Longfellow in a certain article. It is higher than my perm a- 



io8 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

nent one. I was thinking (while writing for a newspaper, 
recollect) rather of his fame than of his genius — I had to 
have a literary equivalent to Washington or Lincoln. Still, 
we must not forget that Longfellow wrote "Chrysaor" 
and, in narrative poetry (which you don't care for) "Rob- 
ert of Sicily." Must one be judged by his average, or may 
he be judged, on occasion, by his highest? He is strongest 
who can lift the greatest weight, not he who habitually 
lifts lesser ones. 

As to your queries. So far as I know, Realf ^zW write his 
great sonnets on the night of his death. Anyhow, they were 
found with the body. Your recollection that I said they 
were written before he came to the Coast is faulty. Some 
of his other things were in print when he submitted them 
to me (and took pay for them) as new; but not the "De 
Mortuis." 

I got the lines about the echoes (I think they go this way: 

" the loon 
Laughed, and the echoes, huddling in affright. 
Like Odin's hounds went baying down the night") 

from a poem entitled, I think, "The Washers of the 
Shroud." I found it in the "Atlantic," in the summer of 
1864, while at home from the war suffering from a wound, 
and — disgraceful fact! — have never seen nor heard of it 
since. If the magazine was a current number, as I suppose, 
it should be easy to find the poem. If you look it up tell me 
about it. I don't even know the author — had once a vague 
impression that it was Lowell but don't know. 

The compound "mulolatry," which I made in "Ashes of 
the Beacon," would not, of course, be allowable in compo- 
sition altogether serious. I used it because I could not at 
the moment think of the right word, "gyneolatry," or 



The LfBtiers of Ambrose Bierce 109 

"gynecolatry, " according as you make use of the nomina- 
tive or the accusative. I once made "caniolatry" for a 
similar reason —just laziness. It's not nice to do things o* 
that kind, even in newspapers. 

* * * 

I had intended to write you something of " beesness, " but 
time is up and it must wait. This letter is insupportably 
long already. 

My love to Carrie and Katie. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &D^ S^ 

Dear George, 

Bailey Millard is editor of "The Cosmopolitan Maga- Army and Navy ciub, 
zine," which Mr. Hearst has bought. I met him in New May 16, 
York two weeks ago. He had just arrived and learning from ^^os- 
Hearst that I was in town looked me up. I had just recom- 
mended him to Hearst as editor. He had intended him for 
associate editor. I think that will give you a chance, such as 
it is. Millard dined with me and I told him the adventures 
of "A Wine of Wizardry." I shall send it to him as soon as 
he has warmed his seat, unless you would prefer to send it 
yourself. He already knows my whole good opinion of it, 
and he shares my good opinion of you. 

I suppose you are at your new ranch, but I shall address 

this letter as usual. 

* * * 

If you hear of my drowning know that it is the natural 
(and desirable) result of the canoe habit. I've a dandy 
canoe and am tempting fate and alarming my friends by 
frequenting, not the margin of the upper river, but the 
broad reaches below town, where the wind has miles and 
miles of sweep and kicks up a most exhilarating combob- 



no The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

bery. If I escape I'm going to send my boat up to Say- 
brook, Connecticut, and navigate Long Island Sound. 

Are you near enough to the sea to do a bit of boating now 
and then ? When I visit you I shall want to bring my canoe. 

I've nearly given up my newspaper work, but shall do 
something each month for the Magazine. Have not done 
much yet — have not been in the mind. Death has been 
striking pretty close to me again, and you know how that 
upsets a fellow. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &^ &Dm 
Washington, DeAR GeORGE, 

1905! I'm your debtor for two good long letters. You err in 
thinking your letters, of whatever length and frequency, 
can be otherwise than delightful to me. 

No, you had not before sent me Upton Sinclair's article 
explaining why American literature is "bourgeois." It is 
amusingly grotesque. The political and economical situa- 
tion has about as much to do with it as have the direction 
of our rivers and the prevailing color of our hair. But it is of 
the nature of the faddist (and of all faddists the ultra so- 
cialist is the most untamed by sense) to see in everything 
his hobby, with its name writ large. He is the humorist of 
observers. When Sinclair transiently forgets his gospel of 
the impossible he can see well enough. 

I note what you say of * * * and know that he did not use 
to like me, though I doubt if he ever had any antipathy to 
you. Six or eight years ago I tackled him on a particularly 
mean fling that he had made at me while I was absent from 
California. (I think I had not met him before.) I told him, 
rather coarsely, what I thought of the matter. He candidly 
confessed himself in the wrong, expressed regret and has 



I'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 



III 



ever since, so far as I know, been just and even generous 
to me. I think him sincere now, and enclose a letter which 
seems to show it. You may return it if you will — I send it 
mainly because it concerns your poem. The trouble — our 
trouble — with * * * is that he has voluntarily entered into 
slavery to the traditions and theories of the magazine 
trade, which, like those of all trades, are the product of 
small men. The big man makes his success by ignoring 
them. Your estimate of * * * I'm not disposed to quarrel 
with, but do think him pretty square. 



* * * 



Bless you, don't take the trouble to go through the Iliad 
and Odyssey to pick out the poetical parts. I grant you 
they are brief and infrequent — I mean in the translation. 
I hold, with Poe, that there are no long poems — only 
bursts of poetry in long spinnings of metrical prose. But even 
the "recitativo"of the translated Grecian poets has a charm 
to one that it may not have to another. I doubt if any- 
one who has always loved "the glory that was Greece" — 
who has been always in love with its jocund deities, and 
so forth, can say accurately just how much of his joy in 
Homer (for example) is due to love of poetry, and how 
much to a renewal of mental youth and young illusions. 
Some part of the delight that we get from verse defies 
analysis and classification. Only a man without a memory 
(and memories) could say just what pleased him in poetry 
and be sure that it was the poetry only. For example, I 
never read the opening lines of the Pope Iliad — and I don't 
need the book for much of the first few hundred, I guess — 
without seeming to be on a sunny green hill on a cold windy 
day, with the bluest of skies above me and billows of pas- 
ture below, running to a clean-cut horizon. There's nothing 



1 1 2 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

in the text warranting that illusion, which is nevertheless 
to me a part of the Iliad; a most charming part, too. It all 
comes of my having first read the thing under such condi- 
tions at the age of about ten. I remember that; but how 
many times I must be powerfully affected by the poets 
without remembering why. If a fellow could cut out all that 
extrinsic interest he would be a fool to do so. But he would 
be a better critic. 

You ought to be happy in the contemplation of a natural, 
wholesome life at Carmel Bay — the "prospect pleases," 
surely. But I fear, I fear. Maybe you can get a newspaper 
connection that will bring you in a small income without 
compelling you to do violence to your literary conscience. 
I doubt if you can get your living out of the ground. But I 
shall watch the experiment with sympathetic interest, for 
it "appeals" to me. I'm a trifle jaded with age and the 
urban life, and maybe if you can succeed in that other sort 
of thing I could. 

As to* * * the Superb. Isn't Sag Harbor somewhere near 
Saybrook, Connecticut, at the mouth of the river of that 
name? I'm going there for a month with Percival Pollard. 
Shall leave here about the first of July. If Sag Harbor is 
easily accessible from there, and * * * would care to see 
me, I'll go and call on her. * * * But maybe I'd fall in love 
with her and, being now (alas) eligible, just marry her 
alive! — or be turned down by her, to the unspeakable 
wrecking of my peace! I'm only a youth — ^^ ^"^ ^^ 24th 
of this month — and it would be too bad if I got started 
wrong in life. But really I don't know about the good taste 
of being jocular about * * *. I'm sure she must be a serious 
enough maiden, with the sun of a declining race yellow 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 1 13 

on her hair. Eva Crawford thinks her most lovable — and 
Eva has a clear, considering eye upon you all. 

* * * 

I'm going to send up my canoe to Saybrook and challenge 
the rollers of the Sound. Don't you fear — I'm an expert 
canoeist from boyhood. * * * Sincerely, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

S^ S9» $^ 

Dear George, 
I have at last the letter that I was waiting for — didn't Washington, d. c, 

% 1 r r • 1 December 3, 

answer the other, for one of mme was on the way to you. 1905. 

* * * 

You need not worry yourself about your part of the busi- 
ness. You have acted "mighty white," as was to have been 
expected of you; and, caring little for any other feature of 
the matter, I'm grateful to you for giving my pessimism 
and growing disbelief in human disinterestedness a sound 

wholesome thwack on the mazzard. 

* * * 

Yes, I was sorry to whack London, for whom, in his char- 
acter as author, I have a high admiration, and in that of 
publicist and reformer a deep contempt. Even if he had 
been a personal friend, I should have whacked him, and 
doubtless much harder. I'm not one of those who give their 
friends carte blanche to sin. If my friend dishonors himself 
he dishonors me; if he makes a fool of himself he makes a 
fool of me — which another cannot do. 

* * * 

Your description of your new environment, in your other 
letter, makes me "homesick" to see it. I cordially congrat- 
ulate you and Mrs. Sterling on having the sense to do what 
I have always been too indolent to do — namely as you 



114 ^^^ Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

please. Guess I've been always too busy "warming both 
hands before the fire of life." And now, when 

"It sinks and I am ready to depart," 

I find that the damned fire was in fne and ought to have 
been quenched with a dash of cold sense. I'm having my 
canoe decked and yawl-rigged for deep water and live in 
the hope of being drowned according to the dictates of my 
conscience. 

By way of proving my power of self-restraint I'm going 
to stop this screed with a whole page unused. 

Sincerely yours, as ever, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

£<^ &^ S9^ 
Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

^ "^"TJoe! I don't know why I've not written to you — that is, I 
don't know why God made me what I have the misfortune 
to be: a sufferer from procrastination. 

* * * 

I have read Mary Austin's book with unexpected inter- 
est. It is pleasing exceedingly. You may not know that I'm 
familiar with the ^zW of country she writes of, and reading 
the book was like traversing it again. But the best of her is 
her style. That is delicious. It has a slight " tang" of archa- 
ism—just enough to suggest "lucent sirups tinct with 
cinnamon," or the "spice and balm" of Miller's sea-winds. 
And what a knack at observation she has! Nothing escapes 
her eye. Tell me about her. What else has she written.? 
What is she going to write? If she is still young she will do 
great work; if not — well, she has done it in that book. But 
she'll have to hammer and hammer again and again before 
the world will hear and heed. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 1 1 5 

As to me I'm pot-boiling. My stuff in the N. Y. American 
(I presume that the part of it that you see is in the Exam- 
iner) is mere piffle, written without effort, purpose or care. 
My department in the CosmopoHtan is a failure, as I told 
Millard it would be. It is impossible to write topical stuff 
for a magazine. How can one discuss with heart or inspira- 
tion a thing that happens two months or so before one's 
comments on it will be read? The venture and the title 
were Hearst's notion, but the title so handicaps me that I 
can do nothing right. I shall drop it. 

I've done three little stories for the March number (they 
may be postponed) that are ghastly enough to make a pig 
squeal. * * * 

Sincerely yours, 
^&^B^ Ambrose Bierce. 
My dear George, 

First, about the " Wine," I dislike the " privately printed" Washington, d. a 

. . March 12 

racket. Can you let the matter wait a little longer? Neale 1906. 
has the poem, and Neale is just now inaccessible to letters, 
somewhere in the South in the interest of his magazine- 
that-is-to-be. I called when in New York, but he had fiown 
and I've been unable to reach him; but he is due here on 
the 23rd. Then if his mag is going to hold fire, or if he 
doesn't want the poem for it, let Robertson or Josephare 
have a hack at it. 

Barr is amusing. I don't care to have a copy of his re- 
marks. 

About the pirating of my stories. That is a matter for 
Chatto and Windus, who bought the English copyright of 
the book from which that one story came. I dare say, 
though, the publication was done by arrangement with 
them. Anyhow my interests are not involved. 



1 1 6 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

I was greatly interested in your account of Mrs. Austin. 
She's a clever woman and should write a good novel— if 
there is such a thing as a good novel. I won't read novels. 

Yes, the "Cosmopolitan" cat-story is Leigh's and is to 
be credited to him if ever published in covers. I fathered it 
as the only way to get it published at all. Of course I had 
to rewrite it; it was very crude and too horrible. A story 
may be terrible, but must not be horrible — there is a dif- 
ference. I found the manuscript among his papers. 

It is disagreeable to think of the estrangement between 
* * * and his family. Doubtless the trouble arises from his 
being married. Yes, it is funny, his taking his toddy along 
with you old soakers. I remember he used to kick at my 
having wine in camp and at your having a bottle hidden 
away in the bushes. 

I had seen that group of you and Joaquin and Stoddard 
and laughed at your lifelike impersonation of the Drowsy 
Demon. 

I passed the first half of last month in New York. Went 
there for a dinner and stayed to twelve. Sam Davis and 
Homer Davenport were of the party. 

Sam was here for a few days — but maybe you don't know 
Sam. He's a brother to Bob, who swears you got your 
Dante-like solemnity of countenance by coming into his 
office when he was editing a newspaper. 

You are not to think I have thrown * * * over. There 
are only two or three matters of seriousness between us 
and they cannot profitably be discussed in letters, so they 
must wait until he and I meet if we ever do. I shall men- 
tion them to no one else and I don't suppose he will to any- 
one but me. Apart from these— well, our correspondence 
was disagreeable, so the obvious thing to do was to put an 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bterce 1 1 7 

end to it. To unlike a friend is not an easy thing to do, and 
I've not attempted to do it. 

Of course I approve the new lines in the "Wine" and if 
Neale or anybody else will have the poem I shall insert 
them in their place. That "screaming thing" stays with 
one almost as does "the blue-eyed vampire," and is not 
only visible, as is she, but audible as well. If you go on 
adding lines to the poem I shall not so sharply deplore our 
failure to get it into print. As Mark Twain says: "Every 
time you draw you fill." 

The "Night in Heaven" is fine work in the grand style 
and its swing is haunting when one gets it. I get a jolt or 
two in the reading, but I dare say you purposely contrived 
them and I can't say they hurt. Of course the rhythm re- 
calls Kipling's "The Last Chanty" (I'm not sure I spell 
the word correctly— if there's a correct way) but that is 
nothing. Nobody has the copyright of any possible metre 
or rhythm in English prosody. It has been long since any- 
body was "first." When are you coming to Washington to 
sail in my canoe? Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce. 

^4^ £«» &i^ 

Dear George, 

I've been in New York again but am slowly recovering. I Washington, d. c. 
saw Neale. He assures me that the magazine will surely 1906. 
materialize about June, and he wants the poem, "A Wine 
of Wizardry," with an introduction by me. I think he 
means it; if so that will give it greater publicity than what 
you have in mind, even if the mag eventually fail. Maga- 
zines if well advertised usually sell several hundred thou- 
sand of the first issue; the trick is to keep them going. Mun- 
sey's "Scrap Book" disposed of a half-million. * * * 

* * * was to start for a few weeks in California about 



1 1 8 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

now. I hope you will see him. He is not a bad lot when con- 
vinced that one respects him. He has been treated pretty 
badly in this neck o' the woods, as is every Western man 
who breaks into this realm of smugwumps. 

My benediction upon Carmelites all and singular — if any 
are all. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

Doubleday, Page & Co. are to publish my " Cynic's Dic- 
tionary." 

&^ s^ s^ 

The Army and J^^^j^ GeORGE, 

INavyClub, _ _ -^ 

v/ashington, D. c, I wHtc in the hopc that you are alive and the fear that 

April 20, 1 J a. 

1906! you are wrecked.* 

Please let me know if I can help — I need not say how 
glad I shall be to do so. "Help" would go with this were I 
sure about you and the post-office. It's a mighty bad busi- 
ness and one does not need to own property out there to be 
"hit hard" by it. One needs only to have friends there. 

We are helpless here, so far as the telegraph is concerned — 
shall not be able to get anything on the wires for many 
days, all private dispatches being refused. 

Pray God you and yours may be all right. Of course any- 
thing that you may be able to tell me of my friends will be 
gratefully received. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce. 

£«» £«» &^ 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE^ 

1906! Your letter relieves me greatly. I had begun to fear that 
you had "gone before." Thank you very much for your 
news of our friends. I had already heard from Eva Croffie. 
Also from Grizzly. * * * 

Thank you for Mr. Eddy's review of " Shapes. " But he is 

*The San Francisco earthquake and fire had occurred April 18, 1906. 



The L.etters of Ambrose Bierce 1 1 9 

misinformed about poor Flora Shearer. Of course I helped 
her — who would not help a good friend in adversity? But 
she went to Scotland to a brother long ago, and at this time 
I do not know if she is living br dead. 

But here am I forgetting (momentarily) that awful wip- 
ing out of San Francisco. It "hit" me pretty hard in many 
ways — mostly indirectly, through my friends. I had rather 
hoped to have to "put up" for you and your gang, and am 
a trifle disappointed to know that you are all right — except 
the chimneys. I'm glad that tidal wave did not come, but 
don't you think you'd better have a canoe ready? You 
could keep it on your veranda stacked with provisions and 
whiskey. 

My letter from Ursus (written during the conflagration) 
expresses a keen solicitude for the Farallones, as the fire 
was working westward. 

If this letter is a little disconnected and incoherent know, 
O King, that I have just returned from a dinner in Atlantic 
City, N. J. I saw Markham there, also Bob Davis, Sam 
Moff'ett, Homer Davenport, Bob Mackay and other San 
Franciscans. (Can there be a San Franciscan when there is 
no San Francisco? I don't want to go back. Doubtless the 
new San Francisco — while it lasts — will be a finer town 
than the old, but it will not be my San Francisco and I 
don't want to see it. It has for many years been, to me, full 
of ghosts. Now it is itself a ghost.) 

I return the sonnets. Destruction of "Town Talk" has 
doubtless saved you from having the one on me turned 
down. Dear old fellow, don't take the trouble to defend my 
memory when — or at least until — 

"I am fled 
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell." 



I20 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

I'm not letting my enemies' attitude trouble me at all. On 
the contrary, I'm rather sorry for them and their insomnia— 
lying awake o' nights to think out new and needful lies 
about me, while I sleep sweetly. O, it is all right, truly. 

No, I never had any row (nor much acquaintance) with 
Mark Twain — met him but two or three times. Once with 
Stoddard in London. I think pretty well of him, but doubt 
if he cared for me and can't, at the moment, think of any 
reason why he should have cared for me. 

"The Cynic's Dictionary" is a-printing. I shall have to 
call it something else, for the publishers tell me there is a 
"Cynic's Dictionary" already out. I dare say the author 
took more than my title — the stuff has been a rich mine 
for a plagiarist for many a year. They (the publishers) 
won't have "The Devil's Dictionary." Here in the East 
the Devil is a sacred personage (the Fourth Person of the 
Trinity, as an Irishman might say) and his name must not 
be taken in vain. 

No, "The Testimony of the Suns" has not "palled" on 
me. I still read it and still think it one of the world's great- 
est poems. 

Well, God be wi' ye and spare the shack at Carmel, 

Sincerely yours, 

^ ^ ^ Ambrose Bierce. 

* * * 

£«• £•» &^ 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

1906! Your poem, "A Dream of Fear" was so good before that 
it needed no improvement, though I'm glad to observe that 
you have "the passion for perfection." Sure — you shall 
have your word " colossal " applied to a thing of two dimen- 
sions, an you will. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce m 

I have no objection to the pubHcation of that sonnet on 
me. It may give my enemies a transient feehng that is dis- 
agreeable, and if I can do that without taking any trouble 
in the matter myself it is worth doing. I think they must 
have renewed their activity, to have provoked you so — got 
up a new and fascinating lie, probably. Thank you for put- 
ting your good right leg into action themward. 

What a "settlement" you have collected about you at 

Carmel ! All manner of cranks and curios, to whom I feel 

myself drawn by affinity. Still I suppose I shall not go. I 

should have to see the new San Francisco — when it has 

foolishly been built — and I'd rather not. One does not care 

to look upon either the mutilated face of one's mashed 

friend or an upstart imposter bearing his name. No, my 

San Francisco is gone and I'll have no other. 

* * * 

You are wrong about Gorky — he has none of the "artist" 
in him. He is not only a peasant, but an anarchist and an 
advocate of assassination — by others; like most of his 
tribe, he doesn't care to take the risk himself. His "career" 
in this country has been that of a yellow dog. Hearst's 
newspapers and * * * are the only friends that remain to 
him of all those that acclaimed him when he landed. And 
all the sturdy lying of the former cannot rehabilitate him. 
It isn't merely the woman matter. You'd understand if you 
were on this side of the country. I was myself a dupe in the 
matter. He had expressed high admiration of my books (in 
an interview in Russia) and when his Government released 
him from prison I cabled him congratulations. O, my! 

Yes, I've observed the obviously lying estimates of the 
San Franciscan dead; also that there was no earthquake — 
just a fire; also the determination to "beat" the insurance 



122 The Letters of ylmhrose Bierce 

companies. Insurance Is a hog game, and if they (the com- 
panies) can be beaten out of their dishonest gains by 
superior dishonesty I have no objection; but in my judg- 
ment they are neither legally nor morally hable for the half 
that is claimed of them. Those of them that took no earth- 
quake risks don't owe a cent. 

Please don't send * * *'s verses to me if you can decently 
decline. I should be sorry to find them bad, and my loath- 
ing of the Whitmaniacal "form" is as deep as yours. Per- 
haps I should find them good otherwise, but the probability 
is so small that I don't want to take the chance. 

* * * 

I've just finished reading the first proofs of "The Cynic's 
Word Book," which Doubleday, Page & Co. are to bring 
out in October. My dealings with them have been most 
pleasant and one of them whom I met the other day at 
Atlantic City seems a fine fellow. 

I think I told you that S. O. Howes, of Galveston, Texas, 
is compiling a book of essays and sich from some of my 
stuff that I sent him. I've left the selection entirely to him 
and presented him with the profits if there be any. He'll 
probably not even find a publisher. He has the work about 
half done. By the way, he is an enthusiastic admirer of you. 
For that I like him, and for much else. 

I mean to stay here all summer if I die for it, as I prob- 
ably shall. Luck and love to you. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &^ &9^ 
The Army and DeAR Mr. CaHILL, 

Washington^D. c.i I ^m more sorry than I can say to be unable to send you 
June 20, 1906. ^.]^g copy of the Builder's Review that you kindly sent me. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 123 

But before receiving your note I had, in my own interest, 
searched high and low for it, in vain. Somebody stole it 
from my table. I especially valued it after the catastrophe, 
but should have been doubly pleased to have it for you. 

It was indeed a rough deal you San Franciscans got. I 
had always expected to go back to the good old town some 
day, but I have no desire to see the new town, if there is to 
be one. I fear the fire consumed even the ghosts that used 
to meet me at every street corner — ghosts of dear dead 
friends, oh, so many of them ! 

Please accept my sympathy for your losses. I too am a 
"sufferer," a whole edition of my latest book, plates and 
all, having gone up in smoke and many of my friends being 
now in the "dependent class." It hit us all pretty hard, I 
guess, wherever we happened to be. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

Dear George, 

* * * 

If your neighbor Carmelites are really "normal" and Washington, d. c, 
respectable I'm sorry for you. They will surely (remaining 1906. 
cold sober themselves) drive you to drink. Their sort 
affects me that way. God bless the crank and the curio! — 
what would life in this desert be without its mullahs and 
its dervishes? A matter of merchants and camel drivers — 
no one to laugh with and at. 

Did you see Gorky's estimate of us in "Appleton's"? 
Having been a few weeks in the land, whose language he 
knows not a word of, he knows (by intuition of genius and 
a wee-bit help from Gaylord Wilshire and his gang) all 
about us, and tells it in generalities of vituperation as ap- 



124 '^^^ Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

plicable to one country as to another. He's a dandy bomb- 
thrower, but he handles the stink-pot only indifferently 
well. He should write (for "The Cosmopolitan") on "The 
Treason of God. " 

Sorry you didn't like my remarks in that fool "sympo- 
sium." If I said enough to make it clear that I don't care a 
damn for any of the matters touched upon, nor for the fel- 
lows who do care, I satisfied my wish. It was not intended 
to be an "argument" at all — at least not on my part; I 
don't argue with babes and sucklings. Hunter is a decentish 
fellow, for a dreamer, but the Hillquit person is a humorless 
anarchist. When I complimented him on the beauty of his 
neck and expressed the hope of putting a nice, new rope 
about it he nearly strangled on the brandy that I was put- 
ting down it at the hotel bar. And it wasn't with merri- 
ment. His anarchist sentiments were all cut out. 

I'm not familiar with the poetry of WiUiam Vaughan 
Moody. Can you "put me on"? 

I'm sending you an odd thing by Eugene Wood, of Niag- 
ara Falls, where I met him two or three years ago. I'm sure 
you will appreciate it. The poor chap died the other day 
and might appropriately — as he doubtless will — lie in a 
neglected grave. You may return the book when you have 
read it enough. I'm confident you never heard of it. 

Enclosed is your sonnet, with a few suggestions of no im- 
portance. I had not space on it to say that the superfluity 
of superlatives noted, is accentuated by the words "west" 
and "quest" immediately following, making a lot of 
"ests." The verses are pleasing, but if any villain prefer 
them to "In Extremis" may he bite himself with a Snake! 

If you'll send me that shuddery thing on Fear — with the 
" clangor of ascending chains " line — and one or two others 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 125 

that you'd care to have in a magazine, I'll try them on 
Maxwell. I suspect he will fall dead in the reading, or pos- 
sibly dislocate the jaw of him with a yawn, but even so you 
will not have written in vain. 

Have you tried anything on "Munsey"? Bob Davis is the 
editor, and we talked you over at dinner (where would you 
could have been). I thinkhevaluesmyjudgment a little.* * * 

I wish I could be blown upon by your Carmel sea-breeze; 
the weather here is wicked! I don't even canoe. 

My " Cynic " book is due in October. Shall send it to you. 
Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
^>^ £^ &i^ 
Dear George, 

Both your letters at hand. 

* * * 

Be a "magazine poet" all you can — that is the shortest Washington, d. c, 

, • . 1 11 1 11 1 September 28, 

road to recognition, and all our greater poets have travelled 1906. 
it. You need not compromise with your conscience, how- 
ever, by writing "magazine poetry." You couldn't. 

What's your objection to * * * ? I don't observe that 
it is greatly worse than others of its class. But a fellow who 
has for nigh upon twenty years written for yellow news- 
papers can't be expected to say much that's edifying on 
that subject. So I dare say I'm wrong in my advice about 
the kind of swine for your pearls. There are probably more 
than the two kinds of pigs — live ones and dead ones. 

Yes, I'm a colonel — in Pennsylvania Avenue. In <-he 
neighborhood of my tenement I'm a Mister. At my club 
I'm a major — which is my real title by an act of Congress. 
I suppressed it in California, but couldn't here, where I run 
with the military gang. 



126 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

You need not blackguard your poem, "A Visitor, " though 
I could wish you had not chosen blank verse. That form 
seems to me suitable (in serious verse) only to lofty, not 
lowly, themes. Anyhow, I always expect something pretty 
high when I begin an unknown poem in blank. Moreover, it 
is not your best " medium. " Your splendid poem," Music," 
does not wholly commend itself to me for that reason. May 
I say that it is a little sing-songy — the lines monotonous- 
ly alike in their caesural pauses and some of their other 
features ^ 

By the way, I'd like to see what you could do in more un- 
simple meters than the ones that you handle so well. The 
wish came to me the other day in reading Lanier's "The 
Marshes of Glynn" and some of his other work. Lanier did 
not often equal his master, Swinburne, in getting the most 
out of the method, but he did well in the poem mentioned. 
Maybe you could manage the dangerous thing. It would be 
worth doing and is, therefore, worth trying. 

Thank you for the Moody book, which I will return. He 
pleaseth me greatly and I could already fill pages with 
analyses of him for the reasons therefore. But for you to say 
that he hasjyoz/ "skinned" — that is magnanimity. An ex- 
cellent thing in poets, I grant you, and a rare one. There is 
something about him and his book in the current "Atlan- 
tic," by May Sinclair, who, I dare say, has never heard of 
you. Unlike you, she thinks his dramatic work the best of 
what he does. I've not seen that. To be the best it must be 
mighty good. 

Yes, poor White's poetry is all you say — and worse, but, 
faith! he "had it in him." What struck me was his candid 
apotheosis of piracy on the high seas. I'd hate the fellow 
who hadn't some sneaking sympathy with that— as Goethe 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 127 

confessed to some sympathy with every vice. Nobody'll ever 
hear of White, but (pray observe, ambitious bard!) he isn't 
caring. How wise are the dead! 

* * * 

My friend Howes, of Galveston, has, I think, nearly fin- 
ished compiling his book of essaylets from my stuff. Neale 
has definitely decided to bring out "The Monk and the 
Hangman's Daughter." He has the plates of my two luck- 
less Putnam books, and is figuring on my " complete works," 
to be published by subscription. I doubt if he will under- 
take it right away. 

Au reste, I'm in good health and am growing old not alto- 
gether disgracefully. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&e^ &^ &e^ 

Dear George, 

I'm pained by your comments on my book. I always feel V^^^^^\^'^'^ 
that way when praised — "just plunged in a gulf of dark Washington, 
despair" to think that I took no more trouble to make the "5 ^'^■^°' 
commendation truer. I shall try harder with the Howes 

book. ^ ^ ^ 

* * * 

I can't supply the missing link between pages loi and 102 
of the "Word Book," having destroyed the copy and 
proofs. Supply it yourself. 

You err: the book is getting me a little glory, but that 
will be all — it will have no sale, for it has no slang, no 
"dialect" and no grinning through a horse-collar. By the 
way, please send me any "notices" of it that you may 
chance to see out there. 

:l5 :(: jj: 

I've done a ghost story for the January " Cosmopolitan," 



128 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

which I think pretty well of. That's all I've done for more 
than two months. 
I return your poem and the Moody book. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ £«» d«» 

The Army and DeAR GeORGE, 

Wa^shlngton,' Your letter of Nov. 28 has just come to my breakfast 
Decembers, table. It is the better part of the repast. 

* * * 

No, my dictionary will not sell. I so assured the pub- 
lishers. 

I lunched with Neale the other day — he comes down here 
once a month. His magazine (I think he is to call it "The 
Southerner," or something like that) will not get out this 
month, as he expected it to. And for an ominous reason: 
He had relied largely on Southern writers, and finds that 
they can't write! He assures me that it te;/// appear this win- 
ter and asked me not to withdraw your poem and my re- 
marks on it unless you asked it. So I did not. 

In your character of bookseller carrying a stock of my 
books you have a new interest. May Heaven promote you 
to publisher! 

Thank you for the Moody books — which I'll return soon. 
"The Masque of Judgment" has some great work in its 
final pages — quite as great as anything in Faust. The pas- 
sages that you marked are good too, but some of them 
barely miss being entirely satisfying. It would trouble you 
to find many such passages in the other book, which is, 
moreover, not distinguished for clarity. I found myself 
frequently prompted to ask the author: "What the devil 
are you driving at?" 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 129 

I'm going to finish this letter at home where there is less 
talk of the relative military strength of Japan and San 
Francisco and the latter power's newest and most grievous 
affliction, Teddy Roosevelt. Ambrose Bierce. 

P. S. Guess the letter is finished. 

&9^ &e» do> 
Dear George, 

I suppose I owe you letters and letters — but you don't The Army and 
particularly like to write letters yourself, so you'll under- Walhington, d. c, 

stand. * * * January 27, 

^ ^ ^ 1907. 

Hanging before me is a water-color of a bit of Carmel 
Beach, by Chris Jorgensen, for which I blew in fifty dol- 
lars the other day. He had a fine exhibition of his Cali- 
fornian work here. I wanted to buy it all, but compromised 
with my desire by buying what I could. The picture has a 
sentimental value to me, apart from its artistic. 

* * * 

I am to see Neale in a few days and shall try to learn 
definitely when his magazine is to come out — if he knows. 
If he does not I'll withdraw your poem. Next month he is 
to republish "The Monk and the Hangman's Daughter," 
with a new preface which somebody will not relish. I'll send 
you a copy. The Howes book is on its travels among the 
publishers, and so, doubtless, will long continue. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
£«» &^ s^ 
Dear George, 

Our letters "crossed" - a thing that "happens" oftener NavyS!"'^ 
than not in my correspondence, when neither person has Washington, d. c, 

/• 1 • T 1 1 ... February 5, 

written tor a long time. I have drawn some interesting in- 1907. 



130 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

ferences from this fact, but have no time now to state 
them. Indeed, I have no time to do anything but send you 
the stuff on the battle of Shiloh concerning which you 
inquire. 

I should write it a little differently now, but it may enter- 
tain you as it is. * * * 

Sincerely yours, 

5,5 :^ jj, Ambrose Bierce. 

£<^ £«» &9» 
Washington, My DEAR GeORGE, 

1907! If you desert Carmel I shall destroy my Jorgensen pic- 
ture, build a bungalow in the Catskills and cut out Cali- 
fornia forever. (Those are the footprints of my damned 
canary, who will neither write himself nor let me write. 
Just now he is perched on my shoulder, awaiting the com- 
mand to sing — then he will deafen me with a song without 
sense. O he's a poet all right.) 

I entirely approve your allegiance to Mammon. If I'd had 
brains enough to make a decision like that I could now, at 
6c^y have the leisure to make a good book or two before I go 
to the waste-dump. * * * Get yourself a fat bank ac- 
count — there's no such friend as a bank account, and the 
greatest book is a check-book; "You may lay to that!" as 
one of Stevenson's pirates puts it. 

* * * 

No, sir, your boss will not bring you East next June; or if 
he does you will not come to Washington. How do I know? 
I don't know how I know, but concerning all (and they are 
many) who were to come from California to see me I have 
never once failed in my forecast of their coming or not com- 
ing. Even in the case of* * *, although I wrote to you, and 



The I^ette7^s of Ambrose Bierce 131 

to her, as if I expected her, I said to one of my friends: 
" She will not come." I don't think it's a gift of divination — 
it just happens, somehow. Yours is not a very good ex- 
ample, for you have not said you were coming, "sure." 

So your colony of high-brows is re-establishing itself at 
the old stand — Piedmont. * * * But Piedmont — it must 
be in the heart of Oakland. I could no longer shoot rabbits 
in the gulch back of it and sleep under a tree to shoot more 
in the morning. Nor could I traverse that long ridge with 
various girls. I dare say there's a boulevard running the 
length of it, 

"A palace and a prison on each hand." 

If I could stop you from reading that volume of old 
"Argonauts" I'd do so, but I suppose an injunction would 
not "lie." Yes, I was a slovenly writer in those days, 
though enough better than my neighbors to have attracted 
my own attention. My knowledge of English was imper- 
fect "a whole lot." Indeed, my intellectual status (what- 
ever it may be, and God knows it's enough to make me 
blush) was of slow growth — as was my moral. I mean, I 
had not literary sincerity. 

Yes, I wrote of Swinburne the distasteful words that you 
quote. But they were not altogether untrue. He used to set 
my teeth on edge — could not stand still a minute, and kept 
you looking for the string that worked his legs and arms. 
And he had a weak face that gave you the memory of chin- 
lessness. But I have long renounced the views that I once 
held about his poetry — held, or thought I held. I don't 
remember, though, if it was as lately as '78 that I held 
them. 

You write of Miss Dawson. Did she survive the 'quake .^ 



132 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

And do you know about her? Not a word of her has reached 
me. Notwithstanding your imported nightingale (upon 
which I think you should be made to pay a stiff duty) your 
Ina Coolbrith poem is so good that I want to keep it if you 
have another copy. I find no amendable faults in it. * * * 
The fellow that told you that I was an editor of "The 
Cosmopolitan" has an impediment in his veracity. I simply 
write for it, * * *, and the less of my stuff the editor uses 
the better I'm pleased. ^ * ^ 

O, you ask about the "Ursus-Aborn-Gorgias-Agrestis- 
Polyglot" stuff. It was written by James F. ("Jimmie") 
Bowman — long dead. (See a pretty bad sonnet on page 94, 
" Shapes of Clay. ") My only part in the matter was to sug- 
gest the papers and discuss them with him over many mugs 

of beer. 

* * * 

By the way, Neale says he gets almost enough inquiries 
for my books (from San Francisco) to justify him in repub- 
lishing them. 

That's all— and, as George Augustus Sala wrote of a chew 
of tobacco as the price of a certain lady's favors, "God 
knows it's enough!" Ambrose Bierce. 

£0» &1^ 8^ 
The Army and DeAR GeORGE, 

Washingtonf D. c.i I havc your letter of the 13th. The enclosed slip from the 
April 23, Pacific Monthly (thank you for it) is amusing. Yes, * * * 
is an insufferable pedant, but I don't at all mind his ped- 
antry. Any critic is welcome to whack me all he likes if he 
will append to his remarks (as * * * had the thoughtful- 
ness to do) my definition of "Critic" from the "Word 
Book." 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 133 

Please don't bother to write me when the spirit does not 
move you thereto. You and I don't need to write to each 
other for any other reason than that we want to. As to 
coming East, abstain, O, abstain from promises, lest you 
resemble all my other friends out there, who promise 
always and never come. It would be delightful to see you 
here, but I know how those things arrange themselves with- 
out reference to our desires. We do as we must, not as we 
will. 

I think that uncle of yours must be a mighty fine fellow. 
Be good to him and don't kick at his service, even when 
you feel the chain. It beats poetry for nothing a year. 

Did you get the "Shiloh" article? I sent it to you. I sent 
it also to Paul Elder & Co. (New York branch) for their 
book of "Western Classics," and hope it will meet their 
need. They wanted something, and it seemed to me as 
good, with a little revision, as any of my stuff that I con- 
trol. Do you think it would be wise to offer them for repub- 
lication "In the Midst of Life". ^ It is now "out of print" 

and on my hands. 

* * * 

I'm glad of your commendation of my "Cosmopolitan" 
stuff. They don't give me much of a "show" — the editor 
doesn't love me personally as he should, and lets me do 
only enough to avert from himself the attention of Mr. 
Hearst and that gentleman's interference with the mutual 
admiration game as played in the "Cosmopolitan" office. 
As I'm rather fond of light work I'm not shrieking. 

* * * 

You don't speak of getting the book that I sent, "The 
Monk and the Hangman's Daughter"— new edition. 'Tisn't 
as good as the old. * * * 



134 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

I'm boating again. How I should like to put out my prow 
on Monterey Bay. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ s^ &^ 

^'l.lTc':'. Db;ar Lora, 
Washington, D. c, Your letter, with the yerba buena and the spray of red- 
T907! wood, came like a breeze from the hills. And the photo- 
graphs are most pleasing. I note that Sloot's moustache is 
decently white at last, as becomes a fellow of his years. I 
dare say his hair is white too, but I can't see under his hat. 
And I think he never removes it. That backyard of yours is 
a wonder, but I sadly miss the appropriate ash-heaps, tin 
cans, old packing-boxes, and so forth. And that palm in 
front of the house — gracious, how she's grown! Well, it has 
been more than a day growing, and I've not watched it 
attentively. 

I hope you'll have a good time in Yosemite, but Sloots is 
an idiot not to go with you — nineteen days is as long as 
anybody would want to stay there. 

I saw a little of Phyllis Partington in New York. She told 
me much of you and seems to be fond of you. That is very 
intelligent of her, don't you think? 

No, I shall not wait until I'm rich before visiting you. 
I've no intention of being rich, but do mean to visit you — 
some day. Probably when Grizzly has visited me. Love to 
you all. Ambrose Bierce. 

s&» &^ &9» 

Army and Navy Club, DeAR GeORGE, 

Washington, D. C, * * * 

June 25, 

1907- So * * * showed you his article on me. He showed it to 
me also, and some of it amused me mightily, though I 
didn't tell him so. That picture of me as a grouchy and dis- 



'The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 135 

appointed old man occupying the entire cave of Adullam is 
particularly humorous, and so poetic that I would not for 
the world "cut it out." * * * seems incapable (like a good 
many others) of estimating success in other terms than 
those of popularity. He gives a rather better clew to his own 
character than to mine. The old man is fairly well pleased 
with the way that he has played the game, and with his 
share of the stakes, thank'ee. 

I note with satisfaction jyo^/r satisfaction with my article 
on you and your poem. I'll correct the quotation about the 
"timid sapphires" — don't know how I happened to leave 
out the best part of it. But I left out the line about "har- 
lot's blood" because I didn't (and don't) think a magazine 
would "stand for it" if I called the editor's attention to it. 
You don't know what magazines are if you haven't tested 
them. However, I'll try it on Chamberlain if you like. And 

I'll put in "twilight of the year" too. 

* * * 

It's pleasing to know that you've "cut out" your clerical 
work if you can live without it. Now for some great poetry! 
Carmel has a fascination for me too — because of your let- 
ters. Ifldidnot fear illness — a return of my old complaint — 
I'd set out for it at once. I've nothing to do that would 
prevent — about two day's work a month. But I'd never 
set foot in San Francisco. Of all the Sodoms and Gomor- 
rahs in our modern world it is the worst. There are not ten 
righteous (and courageous) men there. It needs another 
quake, another whiff of fire, and — more than all else — a 
steady tradewind of grapeshot. When * * * gets done 
blackguarding New York (as it deserves) and has shaken 
the dung of San Francisco from his feet I'm going to "sick 
him onto" that moral penal colony of the world. * * * 



136 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

I've two "books" seeking existence in New York— the 
Howes book and some satires. Guess they are cocks that 
will not fight. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

I was sixty-five yesterday. 

&i^ &^ &^ 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

"1907! I've just finished reading proofs of my stuff about you 
and your poem. Chamberlain, as I apprised you, has it 
slated for September. But for that month also he has slated 
a longish spook story of mine, besides my regular stuff. 
Not seeing how he can run it all in one issue, I have asked 
him to run your poem (with my remarks) and hold the 
spook yarn till some other time. I hope he'll do so, but if he 
doesn't, don't think it my fault. An editor never does as 
one wants him to. I inserted in my article another quota- 
tion or two, and restored some lines that I had cut out of 
the quotations to save space. 
It's grilling hot here — I envy you your Carmel. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
£4^ &^ s®» 

The Army and DeAR GeORGE, 

WashingtoY, D."c! I guess Several of your good letters are unanswered, as 

are many others of other correspondents. I've been gadding 

a good deal lately — to New York principally. When I want 

a royal good time I go to New York; and I get it. 

* * * 

As to Miller being "about the same age" as I, why, no. 
The rascal is long past seventy, although nine or ten years 
ago he wrote from x'\laska that he was "in the middle 
fifties." I've known him for nearly thirty years and he 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 137 

can't fool me with his youthful airs and tales. May he live 
long and repent. 

Thank you for taking the trouble to send Conan Doyle's 
opinion of me. No, it doesn't turn my head; I can show you 
dozens of "appreciations" from greater and more famous 
men. I return it to you corrected — as he really wrote it. 
Here it is: 

"Praise from Sir Hugo is praise indeed." In "Through 
the Magic Door," an exceedingly able article on short 
stories that have interested him, Conan Doyle pays the fol- 
lowing well-deserved tribute to Ambrose Bierce, whose 
wonderful short stories have so often been praised in these 
columns: "Talking of weird American stories, have you 
ever read any of the works of Ambrose Bierce.^ I have one 
of his books before me, 'In the Midst of Life.' This man 
(has)* had a flavor quite his own, and (is)* was a great 
artist. It is not cheerful reading, but it leaves its mark upon 
you, and that is the proof of good work." 

Thank you also for the Jacobs story, which I will read. 
As a humorist he is no great thing. 

I've not read your Bohemian play to a finish yet, * * *. 
By the way, I've always wondered why they did not "put 
on" Comus. Properly done it would be great woodland 
stuff. Read it with a view to that and see if I'm not right. 
And then persuade them to "stage it" next year. 

I'm being awfully pressed to return to California. No San 
Francisco for me, but Carmel sounds good. For about how 
much could I get ground and build a bungalow — for one? 
That's a pretty indefinite question; but then the will to go 
is a little hazy at present. It consists, as yet, only of the 
element of desire. * * * 

*Crossed out by A. B. 



138 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

The "Cosmopolitan," with your poem, has not come to 
hand but is nearly due — I'm a little impatient — eager to 
see the particular kind of outrage Chamberlain's artist has 
wrought upon it. He (C.) asked for your address the other 
day; so he will doubtless send you a check. 

* * * 

Now please go to work at "Lilith"; it's bound to be great 
stuff, for you'll have to imagine it all. I'm sorry that any- 
body ever invented Lilith; it makes her too much of an his- 
torical character. 

* * * 

"The other half of the Devil's Dictionary" is in the fluid 
state — not even liquid. And so, doubtless, it will remain. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

s^ &^ s^ 

The Army and My DEAR GeORGE, 

Washington, D. c.', I'm awfully glad that you don't mind Chamberlain's yel- 
Septembery, Jq^ nonsensc in coupling Ella's name with yours. But 
when you read her natural opinion of your work you'll 
acquit her of complicity in the indignity. I'm sending a few 
things from Hearst's newspapers — written by the slangers, 
dialecters and platitudinarians of the staff, and by some of 
the swine among the readers. 

Note the deliberate and repeated lying of Brisbane in 
quoting me as saying the "Wine" is "the greatest poem 
ever written in America. " Note his dishonesty in confess- 
ing that he has commendatory letters, yet not publishing a 
single one of them. But the end is not yet — my inning is to 
come, in the magazine. Chamberlain (who professes an en- 
thusiastic admiration of the poem) promises me a free hand 
in replying to these ignorant asses. If he does not give it to 



T'he LfBtters of Ambrose Bierce 139 

me I quit. I've writ a paragraph or two for the November 
number (too late now for the October) by way of warning 
them what they'll get when December comes. So you see 
you must patiently endure the befouling till then. 

* * * 

Did you notice in the last line of the "Wine" that I re- 
stored the word "smile" from your earlier draft of the 
verses? In one of your later (I don't remember if in the last) 
you had it "sigh." That was wrong; "smile" seems to me 
infinitely better as a definition of the poet's attitude toward 
his dreams. So, considering that I had a choice, I chose it. 
Hope you approve. 

I am serious in wishing a place in Carmel as a port of 
refuge from the storms of age. I don't know that I shall 
ever live there, but should like to feel that I can if I want 
to. Next summer I hope to go out there and spy out the 
land, and if I then "have the price" (without sacrificing 
any of my favorite stocks) I shall buy. I don't care for the 
grub question — should like to try the simple life, for I 
have already two gouty finger points as a result of the other 
kind of life. (Of course if they all get that way I shan't 
mind, for I love uniformity.) Probably if I attempted to 
live in Carmel I should have asthma again, from which I 
have long been free. * * * 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ s^ &^ 

My dear Morrow, 

Whether you " prosper " or not I'm glad you write instead Army and Navy ciub, 
of teaching. I have done a bit of teaching myself, but as the October 9, 
tuition was gratuitous I could pick my pupils; so it was a ^^o?- 
labor of love. I'm pretty well satisfied with the results. 



I40 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

No, I'm not "toiling" much now. I've written all I care 
to, and having a pretty easy berth (writing for The Cos- 
mopolitan only, and having no connection with Mr. 
Hearst's newspapers) am content. 

I have observed your story in Success, but as I never never 
(sic) read serials shall await its publication in covers before 
making a meal of it. 

You seem to be living at the old place in Vallejo Street, so 
I judge that it was spared by the fire. I had some pretty 
good times in that house, not only with you and Mrs. Mor- 
row (to whom my love, please) but with the dear Hogan 
girls. Poor Flodie! she is nearly a sole survivor now. I 
wonder if she ever thinks of us. 

I hear from California frequently through a little group of 
interesting folk who foregather at Carmel — whither I shall 
perhaps stray some day and there leave my bones. Mean- 
time, I am fairly happy here. 

I wish you would add yourself to the Carmel crowd. You 
would be a congenial member of the gang and would find 
them worth while. You must know George Sterling: he is 
the high panjandrum and a gorgeously good fellow. Go get 
thee a bungalow at Carmel, which is indubitably the 
charmingest place in the State. As to San Francisco, with 
its labor-union government, its thieves and other impossi- 
bilities, I could not be drawn into it by a team of behe- 
moths. But California — ah, I dare not permit myself to 
remember it. Yet this Eastern country is not without 
charm. And my health is good here, as it never was there. 
Nothing ails me but age, which brings its own cure. 

God keep thee! — go and live at Carmel. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 141 

James D. Blake, Esq., 
Dear Sir: 

It is a matter of no great importance to me, but the re- The Army and 
publication of the foolish books that you mention would walhin'ton D c 
not be agreeable to me. They have no kind of merit or October 29, 
interest. One of them, "The Fiend's Delight," was pub- 
lished against my protest; the utmost concession that the 
compiler and publisher (the late John Camden Hatten, 
London) would make was to let me edit his collection of my 
stuff and write a preface. You would pretty surely lose 
money on any of them. 

If you care to republish anything of mine you would, I 
think, do better with "Black Beetles in Amber," or 
"Shapes of Clay." The former sold well, and the latter 
would, I think, have done equally well if the earthquake- 
and-fire had not destroyed it, including the plates. Nearly 
all of both books were sold in San Francisco, and the sold, 
as well as the unsold, copies — I mean the unsold copies of 
the latter — perished in the fire. There is much inquiry for 
them (mainly from those who lost them) and I am told 
that they bring fancy prices. You probably know about 
that better than I. 

I should be glad to entertain proposals from you for their 
republication — in San Francisco — and should not be ex- 
acting as to royalties, and so forth. 

But the other books are "youthful indiscretions" and are 
"better dead." Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &^ &^ 

Dear George, 

* * * 

The Army and 

Please send me a copy of the new edition of "The Testi- Navy ciub, 

,, T 1 ^ r 1 r 1- • • Washington, D. C, 

mony. 1 borrowed one or the nrst edition to give away, December 28, 1907. 



142 ihe Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

and want to replace it. Did you add the "Wine" to it? I'd 
not leave off the indefinite article from the title of that; it 
seems to dignify the tipple by hinting that it was no ordi- 
nary tope. It may have been witch-fermented. 

I don't "dislike" the line: "So terribly that brilliance 
shall enhance"; it seems merely less admirable than the 
others. Why didn't I tell you so.'' I could not tell you all I 
thought of the poem — for another example, how I loved 
the lines: 

"Where Dawn upon a pansy's breast hath laid 
A single tear, and whence the wind hath flown 
And left a silenced 

* * * 

I'm returning you, under another cover (as the cere- 
monial slangers say) some letters that have come to me and 
that I have answered. I have a lot more, most of them 
abusive, I guess, that I'll dig out later. But the most pleas- 
ing ones I can't send, for I sent them to Brisbane on his 
promise to publish them, which the liar did not, nor has he 
had the decency to return them. I'm hardly sorry, for it 
gave me good reason to call him a peasant and a beast of 
the field. I'm always grateful for the chance to prod some- 
body. 

I detest the "limited edition" and "autograph copies" 
plan of publication, but for the sake of Howes, who has 
done a tremendous lot of good work on my book, have as- 
sented to Blake's proposal in all things and hope to be able 
to laugh at this brilliant example of the "irony of fate." 
I've refused to profit in any way by the book. I want 
Howes to "break even" for his labor. 

By the way. Pollard and I had a good time in Galveston, 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 143 

and on the way I took in some of my old battlefields. At 
Galveston they nearly killed me with hospitality — so 
nearly that Pollard fled. I returned via Key West and 
Florida. 

You'll probably see Howes next Summer— I've persuaded 
him to go West and renounce the bookworm habit for some 
other folly. Be good to him; he is a capital fellow in his odd, 
amusing way. 

I didn't know there was an American edition of "The 
Fiends' Delight." Who published it and when? 

Congratulations on acceptance of "Tasso and Leonora." 
But I wouldn't do much in blank verse if I were you. It 
betrays you (somehow) into mere straightaway expression, 
and seems to repress in you the glorious abundance of 
imagery and metaphor that enriches your rhyme-work. 
This is not a criticism, particularly, of "Tasso," which is 
good enough for anybody, but — well, it's just so. 

I'm not doing much. My stuff in the Cosmo, comes last, 
and when advertisements crowd some of it is left off. Most 
of it gets in later (for of course I don't replace it with more 
work) but it is sadly antiquated. My checks, though, are 
always up to date. Sincerely* yours, Ambrose Bierce. 

*I can almost say "sinecurely." 

£«» &^ £o» 
My dear George, 
I have just come upon a letter of yours that I got at Gal- The Amy and 

J /T r \ j-j 1 1 , -r. tP • Navy Club, 

veston and (I rear) did not acknowledge. But I ve written Washington, d. c, 
you since, so I fancy all is well. \^'^^^'^ '^* 

You mention that sonnet that Chamberlain asked for. 
You should not have let him have it — it was, as you say, 
the kind of stuff that magazines like. Nay, it was even 
better. But I wish you'd sent it elsewhere. You owed it to 



144 ^^^ Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

me not to let the Cosmopolitan's readers see anything of 
yours (for awhile, at least) that was less than great. Some- 
thing as great as the sonnet that you sent to McClure's 
was what the circumstances called for. 

"And strict concern of relativity" — O bother! that's not 
poetry. It's the slang of philosophy. 

I am still awaiting my copy of the new "Testimony." 
That's why I'm scolding. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
£^ &^ &^ 

The Army and My DEAR LoRA, 

Washington, D. c.i I'm an age acknowledging your letter; but then you'd 
^^"gos' have been an age writing it if you had not done it for 
"Sloots." And the other day I had one from him, written 
in his own improper person. 

I think it abominable that he and Carlt have to work so 
hard — at their age — and I quite agree with George Ster- 
ling that Carlt ought to go to Carmel and grow potatoes. 
I'd like to do that myself, but for the fact that so many 
objectionable persons frequent the place: * * *^ * * * and 
the like. I'm hoping, however, that the ocean will swallow 
* * * and be unable to throw him up. 

I trust you'll let Sloots "retire" at seventy, which is 
really quite well along in life toward the years of discretion 
and the age of consent. But when he is retired I know that 
he will bury himself in the redwoods and never look upon 
the face of man again. That, too, I should rather like to do 
myself— for a few months. 

I've laid out a lot of work for myself this season, and 
doubt if I shall get to California, as I had hoped. So I shall 
never, never see you. But you might send me a photograph. 

God be with you. Ambrose Bierce. 



'J'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 145 

N. B. If you follow the pages you'll be able to make some Washington, d. c. 
sense of this screed. {908."' 

My dear George, 

I am sorry to learn that you have not been able to break 
your commercial chains, since you wish to, though I don't 
at all know that they are bad for you. I've railed at mine 
all my life, but don't remember that I ever made any good 
use of leisure when I had it — unless the mere "having a 
good time" is such. I remember once writing that one's 
career, or usefulness, was about ended when one thought 
less about how best to do his work than about the hardship 
of having to do it. I might have said the hardship of having 
so little leisure to do it. As I grow older I see more and more 
clearly the advantages of disadvantage, the splendid urge 
of adverse conditions, the uplifting effect of repression. 
And I'm ashamed to note how little / profited by them. I 
wasn't the right kind, that is all; but I indulge the hope 
that you are. 

No I don't think it of any use, your trying to keep * * * 
and me friends. But don't let that interfere with your 
regard for him if you have it. We are not required to share 
one another's feelings in such matters. I should not expect 
you to like my friends nor hate my enemies if they seemed 
to you different from what they seem to me; nor would I 
necessarily follow your lead. For example, I loathe your 
friend * * * and expect his safe return because the ocean 
will refuse to swallow him. 



* * * 



I congratulate you on the Gilder acceptance of your son- 
net, and on publication of the "Tasso to Leonora." I don't 
think it your best work by much — don't think any of your 



146 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

blank verse as good as most of your rhyme — but it's not a 
thing to need apology. 

Certainly, I shall be pleased to see Hopper. Give me his 
address, and when I go to New York — this month or the 
next — I'll look him up. I think well of Hopper and trust 
that he will not turn out to be an 'ist of some kind, as most 
writers and artists do. That is because they are good feelers 
and poor thinkers. It is the emotional element in them, not 
the logical, that makes them writers and artists. They have, 

as a rule, sensibility and no sense. Except the big fellows. 

* * * 

Neale has in hand already three volumes of the "Col- 
lected Works," and will have two more in about a month; 
and all (I hope) this year. I'm revising all the stuff and cut- 
ting it about a good deal, taking from one book stuff for 
another, and so forth. If Neale gets enough subscriptions 
he will put out all the ten volumes next year; if not I shall 

probably not be "here" to see the final one issued. 

* * * 

Glad you think better of my part in the Hunter-Hillquit 
"symposium." / think I did very well considering, first, 
that I didn't care a damn about the matter; second, that I 
knew nothing of the men I was to meet, nor what we were 
to talk about, whereas they came cocked and primed for 
the fray; and, third, that the whole scheme was to make a 
Socialist holiday at my expense. Of all 'ists the Socialist is 
perhaps the damnedest fool for (in this country) he is 
merely the cat that pulls chestnuts from the fire for the 
Anarchist. His part of the business is to talk away the 
country's attention while the Anarchist places the bomb. 
In some countries Socialism is clean, but not in this. And 
everywhere the Socialist is a dreamer and futilitarian. 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 147 

But I guess I'll call a halt on this letter, the product of an 

idle hour in garrulous old age. 

* * * 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &^ &^ 

My dear Mr. Cahill, 

Your note inquiring about "Ashes of the Beacon" inter- The Army and 
ests me. You mention it as a" pamphlet." I have no knowl- Washington, d. c, 
edge of its having appeared otherwise than as an article A"g"st 7, 
in the Sunday edition of the "N.Y.American" —I do not 
recall the date. If it has been published as a pamphlet, or 
in any other form, separately — that is by itself— I should 
like " awfully" to know by whom, if_yoz^ know. 

I should be pleased to send it to you— in the "American"— 
if I had a copy of the issue containing it, but I have not. It 
will be included in Vol. I of my "Collected Works," to be 
published by the Neale Publishing Company, N.Y. That 
volume will be published probably early next year. 

But the work is to be in ten or twelve costly volumes, and 
sold by subscription only. That buries it fathoms deep so 
far as the public is concerned. 

Regretting my inability to assist you, I am sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
&9» &9^ &^ 
Dear George, 

I am amused by your attitude toward the spaced sonnet, Washington, d. c, 
and by the docility of Gilder. If I had been your editor I f "|'^^' ^'^' 
guess you'd have got back your sonnets. I never liked the 
space. If the work naturally divides itself into two parts, as 
it should, the space is needless; if not, it is worse than that. 
The space was the invention of printers of a comparatively 



148 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

recent period, neither Petrarch nor Dante (as Gilder points 
out) knew of it. Every magazine has its own system of 
printing, and Gilder's good-natured compliance with your 
wish, or rather demand, shows him to be a better fellow, 
though not a better poet, than I have thought him to be. 
As a victory of author over editor, the incident pleases. 

I've not yet been in New York, but expect to go soon. I 
shall be glad to meet Hopper if he is there. 

Thank you for the article from "Town Talk." It suggests 
this question: How many times, and covering a period of 
how many years, must one's unexplainable obscurity be 
pointed out to constitute fame? Not knowing, I am almost 
disposed to consider myself the most famous of authors. I 
have pretty nearly ceased to be "discovered," but my 
notoriety as an obscurian may be said to be worldwide and 
apparently everlasting. 

The trouble, I fancy, is with our vocabulary — the lack of 
a word meaning something intermediate between "popu- 
lar" and "obscure" — and the ignorance of writers as to 
the reading of readers. I seldom meet a person of education 
who is not acquainted with some of my work; my clipping 
bureau's bills were so heavy that I had to discontinue my 
patronage, and Blake tells me that he sells my books at one 
hundred dollars a set. Rather amusing all this to one so 
widely unknown. 

I sometimes wonder what you think of Scheff 's new book. 
Does it perform the promise of the others? In the dedica- 
tory poem it seems to me that it does, and in some others. 
As a good Socialist you are bound to like that-poom. because 
of its political-economic-views. I like it despite them. 

"The dome of the Capitol roars 
With the shouts of the Caesars of crime " 



'The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 149 

is great poetry, but it is not true. I am rather familiar with 
what goes on in the Capitol — not through the muck- 
rakers, who pass a few days here "investigating," and then 
look into their pockets and write, but through years of per- 
sonal observation and personal acquaintance with the men 
observed. There are no Caesars of crime, but about a dozen 
rascals, all told, mostly very small fellows; I can name them 
all. They are without power or influence enough to count 
in the scheme of legislation. The really dangerous and mis- 
chievous chaps are the demagogues, friends of the pee-pul. 
And they do all the "shouting." Compared with the Con- 
gress of our forefathers, the Congress of to-day is as a flock 
of angels to an executive body of the Western Federation 
of Miners. 

When I showed the "dome" to * * * (who had been 
reading his own magazine) the tears came into his voice, 
and I guess his eyes, as he lamented the decay of civic 
virtue, "the treason of the Senate," and the rest of it. He 
was so affected that I hastened to brace him up with whis- 
key. He, too, was "squirming" about "other persons' 
troubles," and with about as good reason as you. 

I think "the present system" is not "frightful." It is all 
right — a natural outgrowth of human needs, limitations 
and capacities, instinct with possibilities of growth in good- 
ness, elastic, and progressively better. Why don't you 
study humanity as you do the suns — not from the view- 
point of time, but from that of eternity. The middle ages 
were yesterday, Rome and Greece the day before. The in- 
dividual man is nothing, as a single star is nothing. If this 
earth were to take fire you would smile to think how little 
it mattered in the scheme of the universe; all the wailing of 
the egoist mob would not affect you. Then why do you 



150 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

squirm at the minute catastrophe of a few thousands or 
milHons of pismires crushed under the wheels of evolution. 
Must the new heavens and the new earth of prophecy and 
science come myour little instant of life in order that you 
may not go howling and damning with Jack London up 
and down the earth that we happen to have? Nay, nay, 
read history to get the long, large view — to learn to think 
in centuries and cycles. Keep your eyes off your neighbors 
and fix them on the nations. What poetry we shall have 
when you get, and give us. The Testimony of the Races! 

* * * 

I peg away at compilation and revision. I'm cutting- 
about my stuff a good deal — changing things from one 
book to another, adding, subtracting and dividing. Five 
volumes are ready, and Neale is engaged in a "prospectus" 
which he says will make me blush. I'll send it to you when 
he has it ready. 

Gertrude Atherton is sending me picture-postals of 
Berchtesgaden and other scenes of "The Monk and the 
Hangman's Daughter." She found all the places "exactly 
as described" — the lakes, mountains, St. Bartolomae, the 
cliff-meadow where the edelweiss grows, and so forth. The 
photographs are naturally very interesting to me. 

Good night. 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &^ &^ 

Army and Navy Club, My DEAR Mr. CaHILL, 

September 12] Thank you for your good wishes for the "Collected 
1908. Works"— an advertisement of which— with many blush- 
es! — I enclose. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 



'The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 151 

P. S. — The "ad" is not sent in the hope that you will be 
so foolish as to subscribe — merely to "show" you. The 
"edition de luxe" business is not at all to my taste — I 
should prefer a popular edition at a possible price. 

d^ &^ &^ 
Dear George, 

Your letter has just been forwarded from Washington. New York, 
I'm here for a few days only — "few days and full of trou- 1908. 
ble," as the Scripture hath it. The "trouble" is mainly 
owling, dining and booze. I'll not attempt an answer to 
your letter till I get home. 

* * * 

I'm going to read Hopper's book, and if it doesn't show 
him to be a * * * or a * * * I'll call on him. If it does I 
won't. I'm getting pretty particular in my old age; the 
muck-rakers, blood-boilers and little brothers-of-the-bad 
are not congenial. 

By the way, why do you speak of my "caning " you. I did 
not suppose that you had joined the innumerable caravan 
of those who find something sarcastic or malicious in my 
good natured raillery in careless controversy. If I choose to 
smile in ink at your inconsistency in weeping for the woes 
of individual "others" — meaning other bumafjs — whilt 
you, of course, don't give a damn for the thousands of lives 
that you crush out every time you set down your foot, or 
eat a berry, why shouldn't / do so? One can't always re- 
member to stick to trifles, even in writing a letter. Put on 
your skin, old man, I may want to poke about with my 
finger again. * * * 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 



152 T^he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

December II, 5). ^ 5|, 

1908. 

I'm still working at my book. Seven volumes are com- 
pleted and I've read the proofs of Vol. I. 

Your account of the "movement" to free the oppressed 
and downtrodden river from the tyranny of the sand-bar 
tickled me in my lonesome rib. Surely no colony of reform- 
ers ever engaged in a more characteristic crusade against 
the Established Order and Intolerable Conditions. I can 
almost hear you patting yourselves on your aching backs 
as you contemplated your encouraging success in beating 
Nature and promoting the Cause. I believe that if I'd been 
there my cold heart and indurated mind would have 
caught the contagion of the Great Reform. Anyhow, I 
should have appreciated the sunset which (characteristi- 
cally) intervened in the interest of Things as They Are. I 
feel sure that whenever you Socialers shall have found a 
way to make the earth stop "turning over and over like a 
man in bed" (as Joaquin might say) you will accomplish 
all the reforms that you have at heart. All that you need is 
plenty of time— a few kalpas, more or less, of uninterrupted 
daylight. Meantime I await your new book with impatience 
and expectation. 

I have photographs of my brother's shack in the red- 
woods and feel strongly drawn in that direction — since, as 
you fully infer, Carmel is barred. Probably, though, I shall 
continue in the complicated life of cities while I last. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
£<^ £«» &^ 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

"1909! I've been reading your book — re-reading most of it — 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 153 

"every little while." I don't know that it is better than 
your first, but to say that it is as good is praise enough. 
You know what I like most in it, but there are some things 
that you don't know I like. For an example, "Night in 
Heaven." It Kipples a bit, but it is great. But I'm not 
going to bore you with a catalogue of titles. The book is all 
good. No, not (in my judgment) all, for it contains lines 
and words that I found objectionable in the manuscript, 
and time has not reconciled me to them. Your retention of 
them, shows, however, that you agree with me in thinking 
that you have passed your 'prentice period and need no 
further criticism. So I welcome them. 

I take it that the cover design is Scheff's — perhaps be- 
cause it is so good, for the little cuss is clever that way. 



I rather like your defence of Jack London — not that I 
think it valid, but because I like loyalty to a friend whom 
one does not believe to be bad. (The " thick-and-thin" loy- 
alty never commended itself to me; it is too dog-like.) I 
fail, however, to catch the note of penitence in London's 
narratives of his underlife, and my charge of literary steal- 
ing was not based on his primeval man book, "Before 
Adam." 

As to * * *, as he is not more than a long-range or short- 
acquaintance friend of yours, I'll say that I would not 
believe him under oath on his deathbed. * * * The truth 
is, none of these howlers knows the difference between a 
million and a thousand nor between truth and falsehood. I 
could give you instances of their lying about matters here 
at the capital that would make even your hair stand on 
end. It is not only that they are all liars — they are mere 



154 T^b^ Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

children; they don't know anything and don't care to, nor, 
for prosperity in their specialties, need to. Veracity would 
be a disqualification; if they confined themselves to facts 
they would not get a hearing. * * * is the nastiest futili- 
tarian of the gang. 

It is not the purpose of these gentlemen that I find so 
very objectionable, but the foul means that they employ to 
accomplish it. I would be a good deal of a Socialist myself 
if they had not made the word (and the thing) stink. 

Don't imagine that I'll not "enter Carmel" if I come out 
there. I'll visit you till you're sick of me. But I'd not live 
there and be "identified" with it, as the newspapers would 
say. I'm warned by Hawthorne and Brook Farm. 

I'm still working — a little more leisurely — on my books. 
But I begin to feel the call of New York on the tympani of 
my blood globules. I must go there occasionally, or I should 
dieof intellectual torpor. * * * "O Lord how long?" — this 
letter. O well, you need not give it the slightest attention; 
there's nothing, I think, that requires a reply, nor merits 
one. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
s^ s^ s^ 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

March 6, * * * 

1909. 

Did you see Markham's review of the "Wine" in "The 
N. Y. American".? Pretty fair, but — if a metrical composi- 
tion full of poetry is not a poem what is it? And I wonder 
what he calls Kubla Khan, which has a beginning but 
neither middle nor end. And how about The Faerie Queene 
for absence of "unity"? Guess I'll ask him. 

Isn't it funny what happens to critics who would mark 
out meters and bounds for the Muse — denying the name 



"The Letters of ylmbrose Bierce 155 

"poem, " for example, to a work because it is not like some 
other work, or like one that is in the minds of them ? 

I hope you are prosperous and happy and that I shall 
sometimes hear from you. 

Howes writes me that the "Lone Hand" — Sydney — 
has been commending you. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

S^ S^ S9» 

Dear George, 
I return the poems with a few random comments and sug- Washington, d. c, 

October o, 

gestions. ^ J509. 

I'm a little alarmed lest you take too seriously my prefer- 
ence of your rhyme to your blank — especially when I 
recall your "Music" and "The Spirit of Beauty. " Perhaps 
I should have said only that you are not so iike/y to write 
well in blank. (I think always of "Tasso to Leonora," 
which I cannot learn to like.) Doubtless I have too great 
fondness for great lines —your great lines — and they occur 
less frequently in your blank verse than in your rhyme — 
most frequently in your quatrains, those of sonnets in- 
cluded. Don't swear off blank — except as you do drink — 
but study it more. It's "an hellish thing." 

It looks as if I might go to California sooner than I had 
intended. My health has been wretched all summer. I need 
a sea voyage — one ma Panama would be just the thing. 
So if the cool weather of autumn do not restore me I shall 
not await spring here. But I'm already somewhat better. 
If I had been at sea I should have escaped the Cook-Peary 
controversy. We talk nothing but arctic matters here — I 
enclose my contribution to its horrors. 

I'm getting many a good lambasting for my book of essays. 



November i, 
1909. 



156 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Also a sop of honey now and then. It's all the same to me; 
I don't worry about what my contemporaries think of me. 
I made 'em think of you — that's glory enough for one. 
And the squirrels in the public parks think me the finest 
fellow in the world. They know what I have in every 
pocket. Critics don't know that — nor nearly so much. 

Advice to a young author: Cultivate the good opinion of 
squirrels. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &^ 6i)m 

Washington, p. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

European criticism of your i^efe noiry old Leopold, is en- 
titled to attention; American (of him or any other king) is 
not. It looks as if the wretch may be guilty of indifference. 

In condemning as "revolutionary" the two-rhyme sestet, 
I think I could not have been altogether solemn, for (i) 
I'm something of a revolutionist myself regarding the son- 
net, having frequently expressed the view that its accepted 
forms — even the number of lines — were purely arbitrary; 
(2) I find I've written several two-rhyme sestets myself, 
and (3), like yours, my ear has difficulty in catching the 
rhyme effect in a-b-c, a-b-c. The rhyme is delayed till the 
end of the fourth line — as it is in the quatrain (not of the 
sonnet) with unrhyming first and third lines — a form of 
which I think all my multitude of verse supplies no ex- 
ample. I confess, though, that I did not know that Pe- 
trarch had made so frequent use of the 2-rhyme sestet. 

I learn a little all the time; some of my old notions of 
poetry seem to me now erroneous, even absurd. So I may 
have been at one time a stickler for the "regular" three- 
rhymer. Even now it pleases my ear well enow if the three 
are not so arranged as to elude it. I'm sorry if I misled you. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce i^j 

You'd better 'fess up to your young friend, as I do to you — 

if I really was serious. 

* * * 

Of course I should be glad to see Dick, but don't expect 
to. They never come, and it has long been my habit to ig- 
nore every "declaration of intention." 

I'm greatly pleased to know that you too like those lines 
of Markham that you quote from the "Wharf of Dreams." 
I've repeatedly told him that that sonnet was his greatest 
work, and those were its greatest lines. By the way, my 
young poet, Loveman, sends me a letter from Markham, 
asking for a poem or two for a book, "The Younger Choir," 
that he (M.) is editing. Loveman will be delighted by your 
good opinion of "Pierrot" — which still another magazine 
has returned to me. Guess I'll have to give it up. 

I'm sending you a booklet on loose locutions. It is vilely 
gotten up — had to be so to sell for twenty-five cents, the 
price that I favored. I just noted down these things as I 
found them in my reading, or remembered them, until I had 
four hundred.Then I took about fifty from other books, and 
boiled down the needful damnation. Maybe I have done too 
much boiling down— making the stuff "thick and slab." 
If there is another edition I shall do a little bettering. 

I should like some of those mussels, and, please God, shall 
help you cull them next summer. But the abalone — as a 
Christian comestible he is a stranger to me and the tooth 
o' me. 

I think you have had some correspondence with my 
friend Howes of Galveston. Well, here he is " in his habit 
as he lives. " Of the two figures in the picture Howes is the 
one on top.* Good night. A. B. 

*Howes was riding on a burro. 



158 'The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

January 29. tj r T U U 1 

1910. riere are your tine verses — 1 have been too busy to write 
to you before. In truth, I've worked harder now for more 
than a year than I ever shall again — and the work will 
bring me nor gain nor glory. Well, I shall take a rest pretty 
soon, partly in California. I thank you for the picture card. 
I have succumbed to the post-card fashion myself. 

As to some points in your letter. 

I've no recollection of advising young authors to "leave 
all heart and sentiment out of their work. " If I did the con- 
text would probably show that it was because their time 
might better be given to perfect themselves in form, 
against the day when their hearts would be less wild and 
their sentiments truer. You know it has always been my 
belief that one cannot be trusted to feel until one has 
learned to think — and few youngsters have learned to do 
that. Was it not Dr. Holmes who advised a young writer 
to cut out every passage that he thought particularly good.^ 
He'd be sure to think the beautiful and sentimental pas- 
sages the best, would he not? * * * 

If you mean to write really "vituperative" sonnets (why 
sonnets?) let me tell you one secret of success — name your 
victim and his offense. To do otherwise is to fire blank 
cartridges — to waste your words in air — to club a vac- 
uum. At least your satire must be so personally applicable 
that there can be no mistake as to the victim's identity. 
Otherwise he is no victim —just a spectator like all others. 
And that brings us to Watson. His caddishness consisted, 
not in satirizing a woman, which is legitimate, but, first, in 
doing so without sufficient reason, and, second, in saying 
orally (on the safe side of the Atlantic) what he apparently 
did not dare say in the verses. * * 



* 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 159 

I'm enclosing something that will tickle you I hope — 
"The Ballade of the Goodly Fere." The author's* father, 
who is something in the Mint in Philadelphia, sent me sev- 
eral of his son's poems that were not good; but at last came 
this — in manuscript, like the others. Before I could do 
anything with it — meanwhile wearing out the paper and 
the patience of my friends by reading it at them — the old 
man asked it back rather peremptorily. I reluctantly sent 
it, with a letter of high praise. The author had "placed" it 
in London, where it has made a heap of talk. 

It has plenty of faults besides its monotonous rhyme 
scheme; but tell me what you think of it. 

God willing, we shall eat Carmel mussels and abalones in 
May or June. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce. 

£4^ &^ &^ 
Dear George, 

My plan is to leave here before April first, pass a few days Washington, d c. 
in New York and then sail for Colon. If I find the canal i„io^ ^' 
work on the Isthmus interesting I may skip a steamer from 
Panama to see it. I've no notion how long it will take to 
reach San Francisco, and know nothing of the steamers 
and their schedules on the Pacific side. 

I shall of course want to see Grizzly first — that is to say, 
he will naturally expect me to. But if you can pull him 
down to Carmel about the time of my arrival (I shall write 
you the date of my sailing from New York) I would gladly 
come there. Carlt, whom I can see at once on arriving, can 
tell me where he (Grizzly) is. * * * 

I don't think you rightly value "The Goodly Fere." Of 
course no ballad written to-day can be entirely good, for it 
must be an imitation; it is now an unnatural form, whereas 

*Ezra Pound. 



1 60 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

it was once a natural one. We are no longer a primitive 
people, and a primitive people's forms and methods are not 
ours. Nevertheless, this seems to me an admirable ballad, 
as it is given a modern to write ballads. And I think you 
overlook the best line: 

"The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue." 

The poem is complete as I sent it, and I think it stops 
right where and as it should — 

"I ha' seen him eat o' the honey comb 
Sin' they nailed him to the tree." 

The current "Literary Digest" has some queer things 
about (and by) Pound, and "Current Literature" reprints 
the "Fere" with all the wrinkles ironed out of it —making 
a "capon priest" of it. 

Fo' de Lawd's sake! don't apologise for not subscribing 
for my " Works. " If you did subscribe I should suspect that 
you were "no friend o' mine" — it would remove you from 
that gang and put you in a class by yourself. Surely you 
can not think I care who buys or does not buy my books. 
The man who expects anything more than lip-service from 
his friends is a very young man. There are, for example, a 
half-dozen Californians (all loud admirers of Ambrose 
Bierce) editing magazines and newspapers here in the 
East. Every man Jack of them has turned me down. They 
will do everything for me but enable me to live. Friends 
be damned! — strangers are the chaps for me. 

* * * 

I've given away my beautiful sailing canoe and shall 
never again live a life on the ocean wave — unless you have 
boats at Carmel. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce i6i 

Dear George, 
Here's a letter from Loveman, with a kindly reference to Washington, d. c, 

>_u ^' u T J "^ Easter Sunday. 

you — that s why 1 send it. ' 

I'm to pull out of here next Wednesday, the 30th, but 
don't know just when I shall sail from New York — appar- 
ently when there are no more dinners to eat in that town 
and no more friends to visit. May God in His infinite mercy 
lessen the number of both. I should get into your neck o' 
woods early in May. Till then God be with you instead. 

Ambrose Bierce. 

Easter Sunday. 

[Why couldn't He stay put?] 

&^ &^ £«• 
Dear George, 

I'm "all packed up," even my pens; for to-morrow I go Washington, d, c, 
to New York — whence I shall write you before embarking. 15,10^ ^^' 

Neale seems pleased by your "permission to print," as 
Congressmen say who can't make a speech yet want one in 
the Record, for home consumption. 

Sincerely, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &^ &^ 

Dear George, 

You will probably have learned of my arrival — this is my Guemeviiie, Cai., 
first leisure to apprise you. 1910.^^' 

I took Carlt and Lora and came directly up here — where 
we all hope to see you before I see Carmel. Lora remains 
here for the week, perhaps longer, and Carlt is to come up 
again on Saturday. Of course you do not need an invitation 
to come whenever you feel like it. 

I had a pleasant enough voyage and have pretty nearly 



1 62 T^he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

got the "slosh" of the sea out of my ears and its heave out 
of my bones. 

A bushel of letters awaits attention, besides a pair of 
lizards that I have undertaken to domesticate. So good 
morning. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
£^ &^ &^ 

The Key Route Inn, DeAR GeORGE, 

^unesc' You'll observe that I acted on your suggestion, and am 
1910- "here." 

Your little sisters are most gracious to me, despite my 
candid confession that I extorted your note of introduction 
by violence and intimidation. 

Baloo* and his cubs went on to Guerneville the day of 
their return from Carmel. But I saw them. 

I'm deep in work, and shall be for a few weeks; then I 
shall be off to Carmel for a lungful of sea air and a bellyful 
of abalones and mussels. 

I suppose you'll be going to the Midsummer Jinks. Fail 
not to stop over here — I don't feel that I have really seen 
you yet. 
With best regards to Carrie. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&H» &9» &9» 
The Laguna Vista, DeAR GeORGE, 

Sunday, July 24' Supposing you to have gone home, I write to send the 
^91°- poem. Of course it is a good poem. But I begin to want to 
hear your larger voice again. I want to see you standing 
tall on the heights — above the flower-belt and the bird- 
belt. I want to hear, 

*Albert Bierce. 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce i s^ 

" like Ocean on a western beach, 
The surge and thunder of the Odyssey," 

as you Odyssate. 

I think I met that dog * * * to-day, and as it was a choice 
between kicking him and avoiding him I chose the more 
prudent course. 

I've not seen your Httle sisters — they seem to have tired 
of me. Why not? — I have tired of myself. 

Fail not to let me know when to expect you for the Guerne- 
ville trip. * * * 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

£«» £^ 54^ 

I go back to the Inn on Saturday. 

Dear George, 

It is long since I read the Book of Job, but if I thought it The Laguna vista, 
better than your addition to it I should not sleep until I i^jo. ^^ °' 
had read it again — and again. Such a superb Who's Who in 
the Universe ! Not a Homeric hero in the imminence of a per- 
sonal encounter ever did so fine bragging. I hope you will 
let it into your next book, if only to show that the "in- 
spired" scribes of the Old Testament are not immatchable 
by modern genius. You know the Jews regard them, not 
as prophets, in our sense, but merely as poets — and the 
Jews ought to know something of their own literature. 

I fear I shall not be able to go to Carmel while you're a 
widow — I've tangled myself up with engagements again. 
Moreover, I'm just back from the St. Helena cemetery, 
and for a few days shall be too blue for companionship. 

"Shifted" is better, I think (in poetry) than "joggled." 

You say you "don't like working." Then write a short 



1 64 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

story. That's work, but you'd like it — or so I think. 
Poetry is the highest of arts, but why be a speciahst? 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ s^ £o» 

Army and Navy Club, DeAR LoRA, 

^^ November ii] It is nice to hear from you and learn that despite my rude 
^91°- and intolerant ways you manage to slip in a little affection 
for me — you and the rest of the folk. And really I think I 
left a little piece of my heart out there — mostly in Berke- 
ley. It is funny, by the way, that in falling out of love with 
most of my old sweethearts and semi-sweethearts I should 
fall in love with my own niece. It is positively scandalous! 

I return Sloot's letter. ,It gave me a bit of a shock to have 
him say that he would probably never see me again. Of 
course that is true, but I had not thought of it just that 
way — had not permitted myself to, I suppose. And, after 
all, if things go as I'm hoping they will, Montesano will 
take me in again some day before he seems likely to leave 
it. We four may see the Grand Cafion together yet. I'd like 
to lay my bones thereabout. 

The garments that you persuaded me were mine are not. 
They are probably Sterling's, and he has probably damned 
me for stealing them. I don't care; he has no right to dress 
like the "filthy rich." Hasn't he any "class conscious- 
ness".^ However, I am going to send them back to you by 
express. I'll mail you the paid receipt; so don't pay the 
charge that the company is sure to make. They charged 
me again for the two packages that you paid for, and got 
away with the money from the Secretary of my club, 
where they were delivered. I had to get it back from the 
delivery man at the cannon's mouth — 34 calibre. 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 165 

With love to Carlt and Sloots, 

Affectionately yours, 

Ambrose. 

&^ &€» s^ 

Dear Lora, 

* * * 

You asked me about the relative interest of Yosemite and The Army and 
the Grand Canon. It is not easy to compare them, they are Washington, d. c, 
so different. In Yosemite only the magnitudes are un- November 14, 
familiar; in the Cafion nothing is familiar — at least, noth- 
ing would be familiar to you, though I have seen something 
like it on the upper Yellowstone. The "color scheme" is 
astounding — almost incredible, as is the "architecture." 
As to magnitudes, Yosemite is nowhere. From points on 
the rim of the Canon you can see fifty, maybe a hundred, 
miles of it. And it is never twice alike. Nobody can des- 
cribe it. Of course you must see it sometime. I wish our 
Yosemite party could meet there, but probably we never 
will; it is a long way from here, and not quite next door to 
Berkeley and Carmel. 

I've just got settled in my same old tenement house, the 
Olympia, but the club is my best address. 

* * * 

Affectionately, 

Ambrose. 
&^ &^ &^ 
Dear Lora, 

Thank you very much for the work that you are doing Washington, d. c, 
for me in photography and china. I know it is great work, jgio^"^ ^^^^' 
But take your time about it. 

I hope you all had a good Thanksgiving at Upshack. 
(That is my name for Sloots' place. It will be understood 



1 66 T'he h,etters of Ambrose Bierce 

by anyone that has walked to it from Montesano, carrying 
a basket of grub on a hot day.) 

I trust Sterling got his waistcoat and trousers in time to 
appear at his uncle's dinner in other outer garments than a 
steelpen coat. * * * I am glad you like (or like to have) 
the books. You would have had all my books when pub- 
lished if I had supposed that you cared for them, or even 
knew about them. I am now encouraged to hope that 
some day you and Carlt and Sloots may be given the light 
to see the truth at the heart of my "views" (which I have 
expounded for half a century) and will cease to ally your- 
selves with what is most hateful to me, socially and politi- 
cally. I shall then feel (in my grave) that perhaps, after all, 
I knew how to write. Meantime, run after your false fool 
gods until you are tired; I shall not believe that your hearts 
are really in the chase, for they are pretty good hearts, and 
those of your gods are nests of nastiness and heavens of 
hate. 

Now I feei better, and shall drink a toddy to the tardy 
time when those whom I love shall not think me a per- 
verted intelligence; when they shall not affirm my intellect 
and despise its work — confess my superior understanding 
and condemn all its fundamental conclusions. Then we will 
be a happy family — you and Carlt in the flesh and Sloots 
and I in our bones. 

N< ^ ^ 

My health is excellent in this other and better world than 
California. 
God bless you. Ambrose. 

£^ £4^ £«• 
Washington, D. C, DeAR CaRLT, 

^'^^'" T910! You had indeed "something worth writing about" — not 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 167 

only the effect of the impenitent mushroom, but the final 
and disastrous overthrow of that ancient superstition, 
Sloots' infallibility as a mushroomer. As I had expected to 
be at that dinner, I suppose I should think myself to have 
had " a narrow escape. " Still, I wish I could have taken my 
chance with the rest of you. 

How would you like three weeks of nipping cold weather, 
with a foot of snow. ^ That's what has been going on here. 
Say, tell Sloots that the front footprints of a rabbit-track 

are made by the animal's hind feet, straddling his forelegs. 
Could he have learned that important fact in California, 
except by hearsay? Observe (therefore) the superiority of 
this climate. * * * Ambrose. 

£«» s^ &^ 
Dear Lora, 
I have just received a very affectionate letter from * * * Washington, d. c. 

.•' .... , -J January 26, 

and now know that I did her an mjustice m what I care- 191 1. 
lessly wrote to you about her incivility to me after I had 
left her. It is plain that she did not mean to be uncivil in 
what she wrote me on a postal card which I did not look at 
until I was in the train; she just "didn't know any better. " 
So I have restored her to favor, and hope that you will con- 
sider my unkind remarks about her as unwritten. Guess 
I'm addicted to going off at half-cock anyhow. 

Affectionately, 

Ambrose. 

£•» s«» &^ 

Dear Lora, 

I have the Yosemite book, and Miss Christiansen has the Washington, d. c. 
Mandarin coat. I thank you very much. The pictures are iqu™^^^'^' 
beautiful, but of them all I prefer that of Nanny bending 



1 68 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

over the stove. True, the face is not visible, but it looks like 
you all over. 

I'm filling out the book with views of the Grand Canon, 
so as to have my scenic treasures all together. Also I'm try- 
ing to get for you a certain book of Canon pictures, which I 
neglected to obtain when there. You will like it — if I get it. 

Sometime when you have nothing better to do — don't be 
in a hurry about it — will you go out to Mountain View 
cemetery with your camera and take a picture of the grave 
of Elizabeth (Lily) Walsh, the little deaf mute that I told 
you of? I think the man in the office will locate it for you. 
It is in the Catholic part of the cemetery — St. Mary's. 
The name Lily Walsh is on the beveled top of the head- 
stone which is shaped like this: 



You remember I was going to take you there, but never 
found the time. 

Miss Christiansen says she is writing, or has written you. 
I think the coat very pretty. Affectionately, 

Ambrose. 
s«» s«» &^ 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

^ '^"^'1911! As to the "form of address. " A man passing another was 
halted by the words: "You dirty dog!" Turning to the 
speaker, he bowed coldly and said: "Smith is my name, 
sir." My name is Bierce, and I find, on reflection, that I like 
best those who call me just that. If my christen name were 
George I'd want to be called that\ but "Ambrose" is fit 
only for mouths of women — in which it sounds fairly well. 
How are you my master.^ I never read one of your poems 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 169 

without learning something, though not, alas, how to make 
one. 

Don't worry about "Lilith"; it will work out all right. As 
to the characters not seeming alive, I've always fancied the 
men and women of antiquity — particularly the kings, and 
great ones generally — should not be too flesh-and-bloody, 
like the "persons whom one meets." A little coldness and 
strangeness is very becoming to them. I like them to stalk, 
like the ghosts that they are ~ our modern passioning 
seems a bit anachronous in them. Maybe I'm wrong, but 
Fm sure you will understand and have some sympathy 
with the error. 

Hudson Maxim takes medicine without biting the spoon. 
He had a dose from me and swallowed it smiling. I too gave 
him some citations of great poetry that is outside the con- 
fines of his "definition" — poetry in which are no tropes 
at all. He seems to lack the fee/ of poetry. He even spoils 
some of the "great lines" by not including enough of the 
context. As to his "improvements," fancy his preference 
for "the fiercest spirit oi the warrior host" to "the fiercest 
spirit that fought in Heaven" \ O my! 

Yes, Conrad told me the tale of his rescue by you. He 
gave me the impression of hanging in the sky above billows 
unthinkably huge and rocks inconceivably hard. 

* * * 

Of course I could not but be pleased by your inclusion of 
that sonnet on me in your book. And, by the way, I'm 
including in my tenth volume my Cosmopolitan article on 
the "Wine " and my end of the controversy about it. All the 
volumes of the set are to be out by June, saith the pub- 
lisher. He is certainly half-killing me with proofs — moun- 
tains of proofs ! * * * 



1 70 The Letters ofyimhrose Bierce 

Yes, you'll doubtless have a recruit in Carlt for your 
Socialist menagerie — if he is not already a veteran exhibit. 
Your "party" is recruited from among sore-heads only. 
There are some twenty-five thousand of them (sore-heads) 
in this neck o' woods — all disloyal — all growling at the 
Government which feeds and clothes them twice as well as 
they could feed and clothe themselves in private employ- 
ment. They move Heaven and Earth to get in, and they 
never resign— just "take it out" in abusing the Govern- 
ment. If I had my way nobody should remain in the civil 
service more than five years — at the end of that period all 
are disloyal. Not one of them cares a rap for the good of the 
service or the country — as we soldiers used to do on thir- 
teen dollars a month (with starvation, disease and death 
thrown in). Their grievance is that the Government does 
not undertake to maintain them in the style to which they 
choose to accustom themselves. They fix their standard of 
living just a little higher than they can afford, and would 
do so no matter what salary they got, as all salary-persons 
invariably do. Then they damn their employer for not en- 
abling them to live up to it. 

If they can do better "outside" why don't they go out- 
side and do so; if they can't (which means that they are 
getting more than they are worth) what are they complain- 
ing about? 

What this country needs — what every country needs 
occasionally — is a good hard bloody war to revive the vice 
of patriotism on which its existence as a nation depends. 
Meantime, you socialers, anarchists and other sentimen- 
taliters and futilitarians will find the civil-service your best 
recruiting ground, for it is the Land of Reasonless Discon- 
tent. I yearn for the strong-handed Dictator who will swat 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 171 

you all on the mouths o' you till you are "heard to cease." 
Until then — How? (drinking.) Yours sincerely, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
&^ &^ &^ 
Dear Lora, 
Every evening coffee is made for me in my rooms, but I Washington, d. c, 

J t> , • r r r r February 19, 

have not yet ventured to take it tromyour cup for tear ot 1911. 
an accident to the cup. Some of the women in this house 
are stark, staring mad about that cup and saucer, and the 
plate. 

I am very sorry Carlt finds his position in the civil service 
so intolerable. If he can do better outside he should resign. 
If he can't, why, that means that the Government is doing 
better for him than he can do for himself, and you are not 
justified in your little tirade about the oppression of "the 
masses." "The masses" have been unprosperous from time 
immemorial, and always will be. A very simple way to es- 
cape that condition (and the on/y way) is to elevate oneself 
out of that incapable class. 

You write like an anarchist and say that if you were a 
man you'd i^e one. I should be sorry to believe that, for I 
should lose a very charming niece, and you a most worthy 
uncle. 

You say that Carlt and Grizzly are not Socialists. Does 
that mean that they are anarchists? I draw the line at 
anarchists, and would put them all to death if I lawfully 
could. 

But I fancy your intemperate words are just the babbling 
of a thoughtless girl. In any case you ought to know from 
my work in literature that I am not the person to whom to 
address them. I carry my convictions into my life and con- 
duct, into my friendships, affections and all my relations 



172 ihe Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

with my fellow creatures. So I think it would be more con- 
siderate to leave out of your letters to me some things that 
you may have in mind. Write them to others. 

My own references to socialism, and the like, have been 
jocular — I did not think you perverted "enough to hurt," 
though I consider your intellectual environment a mighty 
bad one. As to such matters in future let us make a treaty 
of silence. Affectionately, Ambrose. 

&^ &4^ &^ 
The Army and ^y ^^^^ RuTH, 
Navy Club, , ' 

Washington, D. c. It IS pleasant to know that the family Robertson is "see- 

T91I! ing things" and enjoying them. I hate travel, but find it 

delightful when done by you, instead of me. Believe me, I 

have had great pleasure in following you by your trail of 

words, as in the sport known as the "paper chase." 

And now about the little story. Your refusal to let your 
father amend it is no doubt dreadfully insubordinate, but I 
brave his wrath by approval. It isyour work that I want to 
see, not anybody's else. I've a profound respect for your 
father's talent: as a literateur, he is the best physician that 
I know; but he must not be coaching my pupil, or he and I 
(as Mark Twain said of Mrs. Astor) "will have a falling 
out. 

The story is not a story. It is not narrative, and nothing 
occurs. It is a record of mental mutations — of spiritual 
vicissitudes — states of mind. That is the most difficult 
thing that you could have attempted. It can be done ac- 
ceptably by genius and the skill that comes of practice, as 
can anything. You are not quite equal to it — yet. You 
have done it better than I could have done it at your age, 
but not altogether well; as doubtless you did not expect to 
do it. It would be better to confine yourself at present to 



T'he L,etters of Ambrose Bierce 1 73 

simple narrative. Write of something done, not of some- 
thing thought and felt, except incidentally. I'm sure it is in 
you to do great work, but in this writing trade, as in other 
matters, excellence is to be attained no otherwise than by 
beginning at the beginning — the simple at first, then the 
complex and difficult. You can not go up a mountain by a 
leap at the peak. 

I'm retaining your little sketch till your return, for you 
can do nothing with it — nor can I. If it had been written — 
preferably typewritten — with wide lines and margins I 
could do something to it. Maybe when I get the time I 
shall; at present I am swamped with "proofs" and two 
volumes behind the printers. If I knew that I should see 
you and talk it over I should rewrite it and (original in 
hand) point out the reasons for each alteration — you 
would see them quickly enough when shown. Maybe you 
will all come this way. 

You are very deficient in spelling. I hope that is not incur- 
able, though some persons — clever ones, too — never do 
learn to spell correctly. You will have to learn it from your 
reading — noting carefully all but the most familiar words. 

You have "pet" words — nearly all of us have. One of 
yours is " flickering. " Addiction to certain words is an " up- 
setting sin" most difficult to overcome. Try to overcome it 
by cutting them out where they seem most felicitous. 

By the way, your " hero, " as you describe him, would not 
have been accessible to all those spiritual impressions — it 
is you to whom they come. And that confirms my judg- 
ment of your imagination. Imagination is nine parts of the 
writing trade. With enough oi that all things are possible; 
but it is the other things that require the hard work, the 
incessant study, the tireless seeking, the indomitable will. 



1 74 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

It is no "pic-nicj" this business of writing, believe me. Suc- 
cess comes by favor of the gods, yes; but O the days and 
nights that you must pass before their altars, prostrate and 
imploring! They are exacting— the gods; years and years 
of service you must give in the temple. If you are prepared 
to do this go on to your reward. If not, you can not too 
quickly throw away the pen and — well, marry, for ex- 
ample. 

"Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring." 

My vote is that you persevere. 

With cordial regards to all good Robertsons — I think 
there are no others — I am most sincerely your friend, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ s^ &^ 

Washington, D. C, DeAR LoRA, 

1911! Thank you for the pictures of the Sloots fire-place and 
"Joe Gans. " I can fancy myself cooking a steak in the one, 
and the other eating one better cooked. 

I'm glad I've given you the Grand Canon fever, for I 
hope to revisit the place next summer, and perhaps our 
Yosemite bunch can meet me there. My outing this season 
will be in Broadway in little old New York. That is not as 
good as Monte Sano, but the best that I can do. 

You must have had a good time with the Sterlings, and 
doubtless you all suffered from overfeeding. 

Carlt's action in denuding the shaggy pelt of his hands 
meets with my highest commendation, but you'd better 
look out. It may mean that he has a girl — a Jewess des- 
cended from Jacob, with an hereditary antipathy to any- 
thing like Esau. Carlt was an Esaurian. 

You'll have to overlook some bad errors in Vol. V of the 
C. W. I did not have the page proofs. Some of the verses 



T'he LeUers of Ambrose Bierce 175 

are unintelligible. That's the penalty for philandering in 
California instead of sticking to my work. 

* * * 

Affectionately, 

Ambrose. 
s«» £^ &^ 

Dear George, 

I've been having noctes ambrosianse with "The House of Washington, d. c. 
Orchids," though truly it came untimely, for I've not yet 1911. 
done reading your other books. Don't crowd the dancers, 
please. I don't know (and you don't care) what poem in it 
I like best, but I get as much delight out of these lines as 
out of any: 

"Such flowers pale as are 
Worn by the goddess of a distant star- 
Before whose holy eyes 
Beauty and evening meet." 

And — but what's the use? I can't quote the entire book. 

I'm glad you did see your way to make "Memory" a 
female. 

To Hades with Bonnet's chatter of gems and jewels — 
among the minor poetic properties they are better (to my 
taste) than flowers. By the way, I wonder what "lightness" 
Bonnet found in the "Apothecary" verses. They seem to 
me very serious. 

Rereading and rerereading of the Job confirm my first 
opinion of it. I find only one "bad break" in it — and that 
not inconsistent with God's poetry in the real Job: "ropes 
of adamant. " A rope of stone is imperfectly conceivable — 
is, in truth, mixed metaphor. 

I think it was a mistake for you to expound to Ned Ham- 
ilton, or anybody, how you wrote the "Forty-third Chap- 



176 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

ter," or anything. When an author explains his methods of 
composition he cannot expect to be taken seriously. Nine 
writers in ten wish to have it thought that they "dash off" 
things. Nobody believes it, and the judicious would be 
sorry to believe it. Maybe you do, but I guess you work 
hard and honestly enough over the sketch "dashed off." 
If you don't — do. * * * 

With love to Carrie, I will leave you to your sea-gardens 
and abalones. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce. 

I'm off to Broadway next week for a season of old-gentle- 
manly revelry. 

s^ &^ &i^ 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

imi! I*^ packing (I'm going to New York) I find this "Tidal" 
typoscript, and fear that I was to have returned it. Pray 
God it was not my neglect to do so that kept it out of the 
book. But if not, what did keep it out? Maybe the fact that 
it requires in the reader an uncommon acquaintance with 
the Scriptures. 

If Robertson publishes any more books for you don't let 
him use "silver" leaf on the cover. It is not silver, cannot 
be neatly put on, and will come off. The "Wine" book is 
incomparably better and more tasteful than either of the 
others. By the way, I stick to my liking for Scheff's little 
vignette on the "Wine." 

In "Duandon" you —you, Poet of the Heavens! — come 
perilously near to qualifying yourself for "mention" in a 
certain essay of mine on the blunders of writers and artists 
in matters lunar. You must have observed that imme- 
diately after the full o' the moon the light of that orb takes 
on a redness, and when it rises after dark is hardly a 
"towering glory," nor a "frozen splendor." Its "web" is 



The L,etters of Ambrose Bierce i^-j 

not "silver." In truth, the gibbous moon, rising, has some- 
thing of menace in its suggestion. Even twenty-four (or 
rather twenty-five) hours "after the full" this change in 
the quahty and quantity of its Hght is very marked. I don't 
know what causes the sudden alteration, but it has always 
impressed me. 

I feel a little like signing this criticism "Gradgrind," but 
anyhow it may amuse you. 

Do you mind squandering ten cents and a postage stamp 
on me? I want a copy of 'Town Talk — the one in which you 
are a "Varied Type." 

I don't know much of some of your poets mentioned in 
that article, but could wish that you had said a word about 
Edith Thomas. Thank you for your too generous mention 
of me — who brought you so much vilification! 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
d^ £«» ^^ 
My dear Ruth, 

You are a faithful correspondent; I have your postals Washington, d. c, 
from Athens and Syracuse, and now the letter from Rome. 1911. 
The Benares sketch was duly received, and I wrote you 
about it to the address that you gave — Cairo, I think. As 
you will doubtless receive my letter in due time I will not 
now repeat it — further than to say that I liked it. If it had 
been accompanied by a few photographs (indispensable 
now to such articles) I should have tried to get it into some 
magazine. True, Benares, like all other Asiatic and Euro- 
pean cities, is pretty familiar to even the "general reader," 
but the sketch had something of the writer's personality in 
it — the main factor in all good writing, as in all forms of 
art. 



lyg The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

May I tell you what you already know — that you are 
deficient in spelling and punctuation? It is worth while to 
know these things — and all things that you can acquire. 
Some persons can not acquire orthography, and I don't 
wonder, but every page of every good book is a lesson in 
punctuation. One's punctuation is a necessary part of one's 
style; you cannot attain to precision if you leave that mat- 
ter to editors and printers. 

You ask if " stories " must have action. The name "story" 
is preferably used of narrative, not reflection nor mental 
analysis. The "psychological novel" is in great vogue just 
now, for example — the adventures of the mind, it might be 
called — but it requires a profounder knowledge of life and 
character than is possible to a young girl of whatever tal- 
ent; and the psychological "short story" is even more dif- 
ficult. Keep to narrative and simple description for a few 
years, until your wings have grown. These descriptions of 
foreign places that you write me are good practice. You are 
not likely to tell me much that I do not know, nor is that 
necessary; but your way of telling what I do know is some- 
times very interesting as a study o{you. So write me all you 
will, and if you would like the letters as a record of your 
travels you shall have them back; I am preserving them. 

I judge from your letter that your father went straight 
through without bothering about me. Maybe I should not 
have seen him anyhow, for I was away from Washington 
for nearly a month. 

Please give my love to your mother and sister, whom, of 
course, you are to bring here. I shall not forgive you if you 
do not. 

Yes, I wish that you lived nearer to me, so that we could 
go over your work together. I could help you more in a few 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 179 

weeks that way than in years this way. God never does any- 
thing just right. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce. 

&9^ Qi^ &^ 

Dear George, 

Thank you for that Times "review." It is a trifle less Washington, d. c, 
malicious than usual — regarding me, that is all. My pub- icju."^ ' 
lisher, Neale, who was here last evening, is about " taking 
action" against that concern for infringement of his copy- 
right in my little book, "Write It Right." The wretches 
have been serving it up to their readers for several weeks as 
the work of a woman named Learned. Repeatedly she uses 
my very words — whole passages of them. They refused 
even to confess the misdeeds of their contributrix, and per- 
sist in their sin. So they will have to fight. 

* * * I have never been hard on women whose hearts go 
with their admiration, andwhosebodiesfollowtheirhearts — 
I don't mean that the latter was the case in this instance. 
Nor am I very exacting as to the morality of my men 
friends. I would not myself take another man's woman, 
any more than I would take his purse. Nor, I trust, would 
I seduce the daughter or sister of a friend, nor any maid 
whom it would at all damage — and as to that there is no 
hard and fast rule. 

* * 5fS 

A fine fellow, I, to be casting the first stone, or the one- 
hundredth, at a lovelorn woman, weak or strong! By the 
way, I should not believe in the love of a strong one, wife, 
widow or maid. 

It looks as if I may get to Sag Harbor for a week or so in 
the middle of the month. It is really not a question of ex- 
pense, but Neale has blocked out a lot of work for me. He 
wants two more volumes — even five more if I'll make 'em. 



1 80 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Guess I'll give him two. In a week or so I shall be able to 
say whether I can go Sagharboring. If so, I think we should 
have a night in New York first, no? You could motor-boat 
up and back. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce.* 

&4^ 6^ S^ 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

Monday, ^ , 1 1 • 

August 7, In one or your letters you were good enough to promise 
191 1, j^g ^ motorboat trip from New York to Sag Harbor. I can 
think of few things more delightful than navigating in a 
motorboat the sea that I used to navigate in an open canoe; 
it will seem like Progress. So if you are still in that mind 
please write me what day after Saturday next you can meet 
me in New York and I'll be there. I should prefer that you 
come the day before the voyage and dine with me that 
evening. 

I always stay at the Hotel Navarre, 7th avenue and 38th 
street. If unable to get in there I'll leave my address there. 
Or, tell me where you will be. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
If the motorboat plan is not practicable let me know and 
I'll go by train or steamer; it will not greatly matter. A. B. 

£«» ^«» B^ 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

Tuesday, ^l, j, j. 

August 8, 

^911- Kindly convey to young Smith of Auburn my felicita- 
tions on his admirable "Ode to the Abyss " — a large theme, 
treated with dignity and power. It has many striking pas- 
sages—such, for example, as "The Romes of ruined 
spheres." I'm conscious of my sin against the rhetoricians 

*Addressed to George Sterling at Sag Harbor, Long Island. 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 1 8 1 

in liking that, for it jolts the reader out of the Abyss and 
back to earth. Moreover, it is a metaphor which behttles, 
instead of dignifying. But I Hke it. 

He is evidently a student of George Sterling, and being in 
the formative stage, cannot — why should he? — conceal 
the fact. 

My love to all good Californians of the Sag Harbor colony. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
^1^ ^>^ &^ 
Dear George, 

It is good to know that you are again happy — that is to Washington, d. c. 
say, you are in Carmel. For your future happiness (if sue- 1911. 
cess and a certain rounding off of your corners would bring 
it, as I think) I could wish you in New York or thereabout. 
As the Scripture hath it: "It is not good for a man to be in 
Carmel" — Revised Inversion. I note that at the late elec- 
tion California damned herself to a still lower degradation 
and is now unfit for a white man to live in. Initiative, ref- 
erendum, recall, employers' liability, woman suffrage —yah! 

* * * 

But you are not to take too seriously my dislike of* * * * 
I like him personally very well; he talks like a normal hu- 
man being. It is only that damned book of his. He was here 
and came out to my tenement a few evenings ago, finding 
me in bed and helpless from lumbago, as I was for weeks. I 
am now able to sit up and take notice, and there are even 
fears for my recovery. My enemies would say, as Byron 
said of Lady B., I am becoming " dangerously well again." 

* * * 

As to harlots, there are not ten in a hundred that are such 

*Excised by G. S. 



1 82 The L,etters of Ambrose Bierce 

for any other reason than that they wanted to be. Their 
exculpatory stories are mostly lies of magnitude. 

Sloots writes me that he will perhaps "walk over" from 
the mine to Yosemite next summer. I can't get there much 
before July first, but if there is plenty of snow in the moun- 
tains next winter the valley should be visitable then. Later, 
I hope to beguest myself for a few days at the Pine Inn, 
Carmel. Tell it not to the Point Lobos mussel! 

My love to Carrie. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
&^ &^ &^ 

Washington D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

December 27, -^ . 1 1 i > 1 1 t • r 1 

1911. As you do not give me that lady s address I mfer that you 
no longer care to have me meet her— which is a relief to me. 

^ 4= ^ 

Yes, I'm a bit broken up by the death of Pollard, whose 
body I assisted to burn. He lost his mind, was paralyzed, 
had his head cut open by the surgeons, and his sufferings 
were unspeakable. Had he lived he would have been an 
idiot; so it is all right — 

" But O, the difference to me !" 

If you don't think him pretty bright read any of his last 
three books, "Their Day in Court," "Masks and Min- 
strels," and "Vagabond Journeys." He did not see the 
last one — Neale brought down copies of it when he came 
to Baltimore to attend the funeral. 

I'm hoping that if Carlt and Lora go to Wagner's mine 
and we go to Yosemite, Lora, at least, will come to us out 
there. We shall need her, though Carrie will find that 
Misses C. and S. will be " no deadheads in the enterprise " — 
to quote a political phrase of long ago. As to me, I shall 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 1 83 

leave my ten-pounds-each books at home and, Hke St. 
Jerome, who never traveled with other baggage than a 
skull, be "flying light." 
My love to Carrie. Sincerely, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

£4^ &^ &9» 

Dear Lora, 

It is good to hear from you again, even if I did have to Washington, d. c, 
give you a hint that I badly needed a letter. igia.^*^^ ^' 

I am glad that you are going to the mine (if you go) — 
though Berkeley and Oakland will not be the same without 
you. And where can I have my mail forwarded? — and be 
permitted to climb in at the window to get it. As to pot- 
steaks, toddies, and the like, I shall simply swear off eating 
and drinking. 

If Carlt is a "game sport," and does not require "a dead- 
sure thing," the mining gamble is the best bet for him. 
Anything to get out of that deadening, hopeless grind, the 
"Government service." It kills a man's self-respect, atro- 
phies his powers, unfits him for anything, tempts him to 
improvidence and then turns him out to starve. 

It is pleasant to know that there is a hope of meeting you 
in Yosemite — the valley would not be the same without 
you. My girls cannot leave here till the schools close, about 
June 20, so we shall not get into the valley much before 
July first; but if you have a good winter, with plenty of 
snow, that will do. We shall stay as long as we like. George 
says he and Carrie can go, and I hope Sloots can. It is likely 
that Neale, my publisher, will be of my party. I shall hope 
to visit your mine afterward. 

* * * 

My health, which was pretty bad for weeks after return- 



1 84 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

ing from Sag Harbor, is restored, and I was never so young 
in all my life. 

Here's wishing you and Carlt plenty of meat on the bone 
that the new year may fling to you. 

Affectionately, 

Ambrose. 

&^ &t^ &9» 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

1912! I'm a long time noticing your letter of January fifth, 
chiefly because, like Teddy, "I have nothing to say." 
There's this difference atwixt him and me — I could say 
something if I tried. 

* * * I'm hoping that you are at work and doing some- 
thing worth while, though I see nothing of yours. Battle 
against the encroaching abalone should not engage all your 
powers. That spearing salmon at night interests me, though 
doubtless the "season" will be over before I visit Carmel. 

Bear Yosemite in mind for latter part of June, and use 
influence with Lora and Grizzly, even if Carlt should be 
inhumed in his mine. 

We've had about seven weeks of snow and ice, the mer- 
cury around the zero mark most of the time. Once it was 13 
below. You'd not care for that sort of thing, I fancy. In- 
deed, I'm a bit fatigued of it myself, and on Saturday next, 
God willing, shall put out my prow to sea and bring up, I 
hope, in Bermuda, not, of course, to remain long. 

You did not send me the Weininger article on "Sex and 

Character" — I mean the extract that you thought like 

some of my stuff. 

* * * 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 



T'he LjBtters of Ambrose Bier ce 185 

Dear George, 

I did not go to Bermuda; so I'm not " back. " But I did go Washington, d. c, 
to Richmond, a city whose tragic and pathetic history, of 15^1"/^' 
which one is reminded by everything that one sees there, 
always gets on to my nerves with a particular dejection. 
True, the history is some fifty years old, but it is always 
with me when I'm there, making solemn eyes at me. 

You're right about "this season in the East." It has in- 
deed been penetential. For the first time I am thoroughly 
disgusted and half-minded to stay in California when I go — 
a land where every prospect pleases, and only labor unions, 
progressiveSjSuffragettes (and socialists) are vile. No,I don't 
think I could stand California, though I'm still in the mind 
to visit it in June. I shall be sorry to miss Carrie at Car- 
meljbut hope to have the two of you on some excursion or 
camping trip. We want to go to Yosemite, which the girls 
have not seen, but if there's no water there it may not be 
advisable. Guess we'll have to let you natives decide. How 

would the Big Trees do as a substitute? 

* * * 

Girls is pizen, but not necessarily fatal. I've taken 'em in 
large doses all my life, and suffered pangs enough to equip 
a number of small Hells, but never has one of them par- 
alyzed the inner working man. * * * But I'm not a poet. 
Moreover, as I've not yet put off my armor I oughtn't to 
boast. 

So — you've subscribed for the Collected Works. Good! 
that is what you ought to have done a long time ago. It is 
what every personal friend of mine ought to have done, for 
all profess admiration of my work in literature. It is what 
I was fool enough to permit my publisher to think that 
many of them would do. How many do you guess have 



1 86 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

done so? I'll leave you guessing. God help the man with 
many friends, for they will not. My royalties on the sets 
sold to my friends are less than one-fourth of my outlay in 
free sets for other friends. Tell me not in cheerful numbers 
of the value and sincerity of friendships. 

* * * 

There! I've discharged my bosom of that perilous stuff 
and shall take a drink. Here's to you. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&i^ &e^ &^ 

Washington, D. C, DeAR GeORGE, 

June 5, ^ 5^ ^ 

1912. 

Thank you for the poems, which I've not had the time to 
consider — being disgracefully busy in order to get away. 
I don't altogether share your reverence for Browning, but 
the primacy of your verses on him over the others printed 
on the same page is almost startling. * * * 

Of course it's all nonsense about the waning of your 
power — though thinking it so might make it so. My notion 
is that you've only begun to do things. But I wish you'd go 
back to your chain in your uncle's office. I'm no believer in 
adversity and privation as a spur to Pegasus. They are 
oftener a "hopple." The "meagre, muse-rid mope, adust 
and thin" will commonly do better work when tucked out 
with three square meals a day, and having the sure and 
certain hope of their continuance. 

* * * 

I'm expecting to arrive in Oakland (Key Route Inn, 
probably) late in the evening of the lid of this month and 
dine at Carlt's on the 24th — my birthday. Anyhow, I've 
invited myself, though it is possible they may be away on 



*The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 



187 



their vacation. Carlt has promised to try to get his "leave" 
changed to a later date than the one he's booked for. 

* * * 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

P. S. — Just learned that we can not leave here until the 
19th — which will bring me into San Francisco on the 26th. 
Birthday dinner served in diner — last call! 

I've read the Browning poem and I now know why there 
was a Browning. Providence foresaw you and prepared him 
for you — blessed be Providence! * * * 

Mrs. Havens asks me to come to them at Sag Harbor — 
and shouldn't I like to! * * * Sure the song of the Sag 
Harbor frog would be music to me — as would that of the 
indigenous duckling. 

£^ dO» &^ 

My dear Mr. Cahill, 

I thank you for the article from The Argonaut, and am The Army and 
glad to get it for a special reason, as it gives me your ad- Walhington, d. c, 
dress and thereby enables me to explain something. December 19, 

When, several years ago, you sent me a similar article I 
took it to the editor of The National Geographical Maga- 
zine (I am a member of the Society that issues it) and sug- 
gested its publication, I left it with him and hearing noth- 
ing about it for several months called at his office twice for 
an answer, and for the copy if publication was refused. 
The copy had been "mislaid" — lost, apparently — and I 
never obtained it. Meantime, either I had "mislaid" your 
address, or it was only on the copy. So I was unable to 
write you. Indirectly, afterward, I heard that you had left 
California for parts to me unknown. 



1912. 



1 88 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Twice since then I have been in San Francisco, but con- 
fess that I did not think of the matter. 

Cahill's projection* is indubitably the right one, but you 
are "up against" the ages and will be a long time dead 
before it finds favor, or I'm no true pessimist. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

TheOlympia My DEAR RuTH, 

Washington, D. c.^ It's " too bad" that I couldn't remain in Oakland and 
January 17, Bgi-i^gley another month to welcome you, but I fear it will 
"have to go at that," for I've no expectation of ever seeing 
California again. I like the country as well as ever, but I 
dont like the rule of labor unions, the grafters and the suf- 
fragettes. So far as I am concerned they may stew in their 
own juice; I shall not offer myself as an ingredient. 

It is pleasant to know that you are all well, including 
Johnny, poor little chap. 

You are right to study philology and rhetoric. Surely 
there must be some provision for your need — a university 
where one cannot learn one's own language would be a 
funny university. 

I think your "Mr. Wells" who gave a course of lectures 
on essay writing may be my friend Wells Drury, of Berke- 
ley. If so, mention me to him and he will advise you what 
to do. 

Another good friend of mine, whom, however I did not 
succeed in seeing during either of my visits to California, is 
W. C. Morrow, who is a professional teacher of writing and 
himself a splendid writer. He could help you. He lives in 
San Francisco, but I think has a class in Oakland. I don't 

*The Butterfly Map of the World. 



T^he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 189 

know his address; you'll find it in the directory. He used to 
write stories splendidly tragic, but I'm told he now teaches 
the "happy ending," in which he is right — commercial- 
ly— but disgusting. I can cordially recommend him. 

Keep up your German and French of course. If your 
English (your mother speech) is so defective, think what 
they must be. 

I'll think of some books that will be helpful to you in your 
English. Meantime send me anything that you care to that 
you write. It will at least show me what progress you make. 

I'm returning some (all, I think) of your sketches. Don't 
destroy them — yet. Maybe some day you'll find them 
worth rewriting. My love to you all. 

Ambrose Bierce. 
&^ s^ &^ 
Dear Mr. Cahill, 

It is pleasant to know that you are not easily discouraged TheOiympia, 

11 i-ri Tirrii Euclid and 14th Sts., 

by the croakmg or such ravens as I, and I confess that the Washington, d. c, 
matter of the "civic centre" supplies some reason to hope January 20, 
for prosperity to the Cahill projection — which (another 
croak) will doubtless bear some other man's name, prob- 
ably Hayford's or Woodward's. 

I sent the "Argonaut" article to my friend Dr. Franklin, 
of Schenectady, a "scientific gent" of some note, but have 
heard nothing from him. 

I'm returning the" Chronicle" article,which I found inter- 
esting. If I were not a writer without an "organ" I'd have 
a say about that projection. For near four years I've been 
out of the newspaper game — a mere compiler of my col- 
lected works in twelve volumes — and shall probably never 
"sit into the game" again, being seventy years old. My 
work is finished, and so am I. 



1 90 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Luck to you in the new year, and in many to follow. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 

&^ &^ &^ 

TheOIympia DeAR LoRA, 

Washing^tonjD^c ^ have been searching for your letter of long ago, fearing 
I prefer to get my \^ contained Something; that I should have replied to. But I 

letters at this address. . , _ ^ . t 1 1 • • 1 • 

Make a memorandum don t find It; SO 1 make the Convenient assumption that it 
T °'";'- did not. 

January 28, 

^9'^2- I'd like to hear from you, however unworthy I am to do 
so, for I want to know if you and Carlt have still a hope of 
going mining. Pray God you do, if there's a half-chance of 
success; for success in the service of the Government is 
failure. 

Winter here is two-thirds gone and we have not had a 
cold day, and only one little dash of snow — on Christmas 
eve. Can California beat that? I'm told it's as cold there as 
in Greenland. 

Tell me about yourself —your health since the operation — 
how it has affected you — all about you. My own health 
is excellent; I'm equal to any number of Carlt's toddies. By 
the way, Blanche has made me a co-defendant with you in 
the crime (once upon a time) of taking a drop too much. I 
plead not guilty — how do you plead? Sloots, at least, 
would acquit us on the ground of inability — that one 
cant take too much. * * * Affectionately, your avuncular, 

Ambrose. 

&^ B^ &^ 
Washington, D. C, DeAR RuTH, 

'"^'^1^913' I'"^ returning your little sketches with a few markings 
which are to be regarded (or disregarded) as mere sugges- 
tions. I made them in pencil, so that you can erase them if 



T^he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 1 9 1 

you don't approve. Of course I should make many more if 
I could have you before me so that I could explain why\ in 
this way I can help you but little. You'll observe that I 
have made quite a slaughter of some of the adjectives in 
some of your sentences — you will doubtless slaughter some 
in others. Nearly all young writers use too many adjec- 
tives. Indeed, moderation and skill in the use of adjectives 
are about the last things a good writer learns. Don't use 
those that are connoted by the nouns; and rather than 
have all the nouns, or nearly all, in a sentence outfitted 
with them it is better to make separate sentences for some 
of those desired. 

In your sketch " Triumph " I would not name the " hero " 
of the piece. To do so not only makes the sketch common- 
place, but it logically requires you to name his victim too, 
and her offense; in brief, it commits you to a story. 

A famous writer (perhaps Holmes or Thackeray — I don't 
remember) once advised a young writer to cut all the pas- 
sages that he thought particularly good. Your taste I think 
is past the need of so heroic treatment as that, but the ad- 
vice may be profitably borne in memory whenever you are 
in doubt, if ever you are. And sometimes you will be. 

I think I know what Mr. Morrow meant by saying that 
your characters are not "humanly significant." He means 
that they are not such persons as one meets in everyday 
life — not "types." I confess that I never could see why 
one's characters should be. The exceptional — even "ab- 
normal" — person seems to me the more interesting, but I 
must warn you that he will not seem so to an editor. Nor to 
an editor will the tragic element seem so good as the cheer- 
ful — the sombre denouement as the "happy ending." One 
must have a pretty firm reputation as a writer to "send in " 



192 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

a tragic or supernatural tale with any hope of its accept- 
ance. The average mind (for which editors purvey, and 
mostly possess) dislikes, or thinks it dislikes, any literature 
that is not "sunny." True, tragedy holds the highest and 
most permanent place in the world's literature and art, but 
it has the divvel's own time getting to it. For immediate 
popularity (if one cares for it) one must write pleasant 
things; though one may put in here and there a bit of 
pathos. 

I think well of these two manuscripts, but doubt if you 
can get them into any of our magazines — if you want to. 
As to that, nobody can help you. About the only good 
quality that a magazine editor commonly has is his firm 
reliance on the infallibility of his own judgment. It is an 
honest error, and it enables him to mull through somehow 
with a certain kind of consistency. The only way to get a 
footing with him is to send him what you think he wants, 
not what you think he ought to want — and keep sending. 
But perhaps you do not care for the magazines. 

I note a great improvement in your style — probably no 
more than was to be expected of your better age, but a dis- 
tinct improvement. It is a matter of regret with me that I 
have not the training of you; we should see what would 
come of it. You certainly have no reason for discourage- 
ment. But if you are to be a writer you must "cut out" the 
dances and the teas (a little of the theater may be allowed) 
and work right heartily. The way of the good writer is no 
primrose path. 

No, I have not read the poems of Service. What do I 
think of Edith Wharton? Just what Pollard thought —see 
'T'heir Day in Courts which I think you have. 

I fear you have the wanderlust incurably. I never had it 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 193 

bad, and have less of it now than ever before. I shall not 
see California again. 

My love to all your family goes with this, and to you all 
that you will have. Ambrose Bierce. 

&i^ &^ s^ 
Editor "Lantern,"* 

Will I tell you what I think of your magazine? Sure I will. Jtv^cTuV"'^ 

It has thirty-six pages of reading matter. Washington, D. c. 

Seventeen are given to the biography of a musician, — 1^13/^' 
German, dead. 

Four to the mother of a theologian, — German, peasant- 
wench, dead. 

(The mag. is published in America, to-day.) 

Five pages about Eugene Field's ancestors. All dead. 

17+4+5 = 26. 

36 — 26= 10. 

Two pages about Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 

Three-fourths page about a bad poet and his indifference 
to — German. 

Two pages of his poetry. 

2+X+2 = 4^. 

10— 4^ = 5>^. Not enough to criticise. 
What your magazine needs is an editor — presumably 
older, preferably American, and indubitably alive. At least 
awake. It is your inning. Sincerely yours, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
£^ &^ &^ 
My dear Lora, 

You were so long in replying to my letter of the century Washington, d. c, 
before last, and as your letter is not really a reply to any- 1^7^?^' 

*The editor was Curtis J. Kirch ("Guido Bruno") and the weekly had a brief career 
in Chicago. It was the forerunner of the many Bruno weeklies and monthlies, later 
published from other cities. 



194 T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

thing in mine, that I fancy you did not get it. I don't recol- 
lect, for example, that you ever acknowledged receipt of 
little pictures of myself, though maybe you did — I only 
hope you got them. The photographs that you send are 
very interesting. One of them makes me thirsty — the one 
of that fountainhead of good booze, your kitchen sink. 

What you say of the mine and how you are to be housed 
there pleases me mightily. That's how I should like to live, 
and mining is what I should like again to do. Pray God you 
be not disappointed. 

Alas, I cannot even join you during Carlt's vacation, for 
the mountain ramble. Please "go slow" in your goating 
this year. I think you are better fitted for it than ever be- 
fore, but you'd better ask your surgeon about that. By the 
way, do you know that since women took to athletics their 
peculiar disorders have increased about fifty per cent? You 
can't make men of women. The truth is, they've taken to 
walking on their hind legs a few centuries too soon. Their 
in'ards have not learned how to suspend the law of gravity. 
Add the jolts of athletics and — there you are. 

I wish I could be with you at Monte Sano— or anywhere. 

Love to Carlt and Sloots. Affectionately, Ambrose. 
s^ ^«» &f^ 

Washington, D. C, DeAR LoRA, 

September^io, your letter was forwarded to me in New York, whence I 
have just returned. I fancy you had a more satisfactory 
outing than L I never heard of the Big Sur river nor of 
"Arbolado." But I'm glad you went there, for I'm hearing 
so much about Hetch Hetchy that I'm tired of it. I'm help- 
ing the San Francisco crowd (a little) to "ruin" it. 

* * * 

I'm glad to know that you still expect to go to the mine. 



1913- 



T^he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 195 

Success or failure, it is better than the Mint, and you ought 
to live in the mountains where you can climb things when- 
ever you want to. 

Of course I know nothing of Neale's business — you'd 
better write to him if he has not filled your order. I suppose 
you know that volumes eleven and twelve are not included 
in the "set." 

If you care to write to me again please do so at once as I 
am going away, probably to South America, but if we have 
a row with Mexico before I start I shall go there first. I 
want to see something going on. I've no notion of how long 
I shall remain away. 

With love to Carlt and Sloots, Affectionately, 

Ambrose. 
&^ &^ s^ 
Dear Joe,* 

The reason that I did not answer your letter sooner is — I Washington, d. c, 
have been away (in New York) and did not have it with 1913. 
me. I suppose I shall not see your book for a long time, for I 
am going away and have no notion when I shall return. I 
expect to go to, perhaps across, South America — possibly 
via Mexico, if I can get through without being stood up 
against a wall and shot as a Gringo. But that is better than 
dying in bed, is it not ^ If Due did not need you so badly I'd 
ask you to get your hat and come along. God bless and 
keep you. * * * 

s^ £«» £«» 

Dear Joe, 

Thank you for the book. I thank you for your friendship — Washington, d. c, 
and much besides. This is to say good-by at the end of a ipl'3^'" ^'^ '~^' 
pleasant correspondence in which your woman's preroga- 

*To Mrs. Josephine ClifFord McCrackin, San Jose, California. 



196 T'he Letters ofylmbrose Bierce 

tive of having the last word is denied to you. Before I could 
receive it I shall be gone. But some time, somewhere, I 
hope to hear from you again. Yes, I shall go into Mexico 
with a pretty definite purpose, which, however, is not at 
present disclosable. You must try to forgive my obstinacy 
in not "perishing" where I am. I want to be where some- 
thing worth while is going on, or where nothing whatever 
is going on. Most of what is going on in your own country 
is exceedingly distasteful to me. 

Pray for me.^ Why, yes, dear — that will not harm either 
of us. I loathe religions, a Christian gives me qualms and a 
Catholic sets my teeth on edge, but pray for me just the 
same, for with all those faults upon your head (it's a nice 
head, too), I am pretty fond of you, I guess. May you live 
as long as you want to, and then pass smilingly into the 
darkness — the good, good darkness. 

Devotedly your friend, 

Ambrose Bierce. 
£4^ £o» &^ 

TheOlympia, DeAR LoRA, 

Washington, D^'^c.] I go away tomorrow for a long time, so this is only to say 
October i, good-bye. I think there is nothing else worth saying; there- 
fore you will naturally expect a long letter. What an intol- 
erable world this would be if we said nothing but what is 
worth saying! And did nothing foolish — like going into 
Mexico and South America. 

I'm hoping that you will go to the mine soon. You must 
hunger and thirst for the mountains — Carlt likewise. So do 
1. Civilization be dinged! — it is the mountains and the 
desert for me. 

Good-bye — if you hear of my being stood up against a 
Mexican stone wall and shot to rags please know that I 



T'he Letters of Ambrose Bierce 197 



think that a pretty good way to depart this life. It beats 
old age, disease, or falling down the cellar stairs. To be a 
Gringo in Mexico — ah, that is euthanasia! 
With love to Carlt, affectionately yours, Ambrose. 

so» s<^ so» 
My dear Lora, 

I think I owe you a letter, and probably this is my only Laredo, Texas, 
chance to pay up for a long time. For more than a month I ^°^^^ '"' ' 
have been rambling about the country, visiting my old 
battlefields, passing a few days in New Orleans, a week in 
San Antonio, and so forth. I turned up here this morning. 
There is a good deal of fighting going on over on the Mexi- 
can side of the Rio Grande, but I hold to my intention to 
go into Mexico if I can. In the character of "innocent by- 
stander" I ought to be fairly safe if I don't have too much 
money on me, don't you think? My eventual destination is 
South America, but probably I shall not get there this year. 

Sloots writes me that you and Carlt still expect to go to 
the mine, as I hope you will. 

The Cowdens expect to live somewhere in California 
soon, I believe. They seem to be well, prosperous and 
cheerful. 

With love to Carlt and Sloots, I am affectionately yours, 

Ambrose. 
P. S. You need not believe all that these newspapers say 
of me and my purposes. I had to tell them something. 

&^ &&^ &9^ 

Dear Lora, 
I wrote you yesterday at San Antonio, but dated the let- Laredo, Texas, 

, ,1 • 1- 11 J 'l'^ November 6, 

ter here and today, expectmg to brmg the letter and mail it ^^^^^ 
here. That's because I did not know if I would have time 



198 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

to write it here. Unfortunately, I forgot and posted it, 
with other letters, where it was written. Thus does man's 
guile come to naught! 

Well, I'm here, anyhow, and have time to explain. 

Laredo was a Mexican city before it was an American. It 
is Mexican now, five to one. Nuevo Laredo, opposite, is 
held by the Huertistas and Americans don't go over there. 
In fact a guard on the bridge will not let them. So those 
that sneak across have to weide (which can be done almost 
anywhere) and go at night. 

I shall not be here long enough to hear from you, and 
don't know where I shall be next. Guess it doesn't matter 
much. Adios, 

Ambrose. 



199 



Extracts from Letters 



You are right too — dead right about the poetry of Social- 
ism; and you might have added the poetry of wailing about 
the woes of the poor generally. Only the second- and the 
third-raters write it — except "incidentally." You don't 
find the big fellows sniveling over that particular shadow- 
side of Nature. Yet not only are the poor always with us, 
they always were with us, and their state was worse in the 
times of Homer, Virgil, Shakspeare, Milton and the others 
than in the days of Morris and Markham. 

&^ &i^ &^ 

But what's the use? I have long despaired of convincing 
poets and artists of anything, even that white is not black. 
I'm convinced that all you chaps ought to have a world to 
yourselves, where two and two make whatever you prefer 
that it should make, and cause and effect are remoulded 
"more nearly to the heart's desire." And then I suppose I'd 
want to go and live there too. 

s^ &^ s^ 

Did you ever know so poor satire to make so great a row 
as that of Watson? Compared with certain other verses 
against particular women — Byron's " Born in a garret, in a 
kitchen bred"; even my own skit entitled "Mad" (pardon 
my modesty) it is infantile. What an interesting book 



200 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

might be made of such "attacks" on women! But Watson 
is the only one of us, so far as I remember, who has had the 
caddishness to name the victim. 

Have you seen Percival Pollard's "Their Day in Court"? 
It is amusing, clever — and more. He has a whole chapter 
on me, "a lot" about Gertrude Atherton, and much else 
that is interesting. And he skins alive certain popular gods 
and goddesses of the day, and is "monstrous naughty." 

£<^ &i^ &^ 

As to * * * 's own character I do not see what that has 
to do with his criticism of London. If only the impeccable 
delivered judgment no judgment would ever be delivered. 
All men could do as they please, without reproof or dissent. 
I wish you would take your heart out of your head, old 
man. The best heart makes a bad head if housed there. 

£«» &^ £o» 

The friends that warned you against the precarious na- 
ture of my friendship were right. To hold my regard one 
must fulfil hard conditions — hard if one is not what one 
should be; easy if one is. I have, indeed, a habit of calmly 
considering the character of a man with whom I have fallen 
into any intimacy and, whether I have any grievance 
against him or not, informing him by letter that I no 
longer desire his acquaintance. This, I do after deciding 
that he is not truthful, candid, without conceit, and so 
forth — in brief, honorable. If any one is conscious that he 
is not in all respects worthy of my friendship he would bet- 
ter not cultivate it, for assuredly no one can long conceal 
his true character from an observant student of it. Yes, my 
friendship is a precarious possession. It grows more so the 
longer I live, and the less I feel the need of a multitude of 



The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 201 

friends. So, if in your heart you are conscious of being any 
of the things which you accuse me of being, or anything 
else equally objectionable (to me) I can only advise you to 
drop me before I drop you. 

Certainly you have an undoubted right to your opinion 
of my ability, my attainments and my standing. If you 
choose to publish a censorious judgment of these matters, 
do so by all means: I don't think I ever cared a cent for 
what was printed about me, except as it supplied me with 
welcome material for my pen. One may presumably have a 
"sense of duty to the public," and the like. But convincing 
one person (one at a time) of one's friend's deficiencies is 
hardly worth while, and is to be judged differently. It 
comes under another rule. * * * 

Maybe, as you say, my work lacks "soul," but my life 
does not, as a man's life is the man. Personally, I hold that 
sentiment has a place in this world, and that loyalty to a 
friend is not inferior as a characteristic to correctness of 
literary judgment. If there is a heaven I think it is more 
valued there. If Mr. * * * (your publisher as well as mine) 
had considered you a Homer, a Goethe or a Shakspeare a 
team of horses could not have drawn from me the expres- 
sion of a lower estimate. And let me tell you that if you are 
going through life as a mere thinking machine, ignoring the 
generous promptings of the heart, sacrificing it to the 
brain, you will have a hard row to hoe, and the outcome, 
when you survey it from the vantage ground of age, will 
not please you. You seem to me to be beginning rather 
badly, as regards both your fortune and your peace of 

I saw * * * every day while in New York, and he does not 



202 The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

know that I feel the sHghtest resentment toward you, nor 
do I know it myself. So far as he knows, or is likely to know 
(unless you will have it otherwise) you and I are the best of 
friends, or rather, I am the best of friends to you. And I 
guess that is so. I could no more hate you for your disposi- 
tion and character than I could for your hump if you had 
one. You are as Nature has made you, and your defects, 
whether they are great or small, are your misfortunes. I 
would remove them if I could, but I know that I cannot, 
for one of them is inability to discern the others, even when 
they are pointed out. 

I must commend your candor in one thing. You confirm 
* * * words in saying that you commented on "my seem- 
ing lack of sympathy with certain modern masters," which 
you attribute to my not having read them. That is a con- 
clusion to which a low order of mind in sympathy with the 
"modern masters" naturally jumps, but it is hardly 
worthy of a man of your brains. It is like your former lofty 
assumption that I had not read some ten or twelve phil- 
osophers, naming them, nearly all of whom I had read, and 
laughed at, before you were born. In fact, oneof your most 
conspicuous characteristics is the assumption that what a 
a man who does not care to "talk shop" does not speak of, 
and vaunt his knowledge of, he does not know. I once 
thought this a boyish fault, but you are no longer a boy. 
Your "modern masters" are Ibsen and Shaw, with both of 
whose works and ways I am thoroughly familiar, and both 
of whom I think very small men — pets of the drawing- 
room and gods of the hour. No, I am not an "up to date" 
critic, thank God. I am not a literary critic at all, and never, 
or very seldom, have gone into that field except in pur- 
suance of a personal object — to help a good writer (who is 



'The Letters of Ambrose Bierce 203 

commonly a friend) —maybeyoucanrecallsuch instances — 
or laugh at a fool. Surely you do not consider my work 
in the Cosmopolitan (mere badinage and chaff, the only 
kind of stuff that the magazine wants from me, or will 
print) essays in literary criticism. It has never occurred to 
me to look upon myself as a literary critic; if you must 
prick my bubble please to observe that it contains more of 
your breath than of mine.Yetyou have sometimes seemed to 
value, I though tjsome of my notions about even poetry.* * * 

Perhaps I am unfortunate in the matter of keeping 
friends; I know, and have abundant reason to know, that 
you are at least equally luckless in the matter of making 
them. I could put my finger on the very qualities in you 
that make you so, and the best service that I could do you 
would be to point them out and take the consequences. 
That is to say, it would serve you many years hence; at 
present you are like Carlyle's "Mankind"; you "refuse to 
be served." You only consent to be enraged. 

I bear you no ill will, shall watch your career in letters 
with friendly solicitude — have, in fact, just sent to the 
* * * a most appreciative paragraph about your book, 
which may or may not commend itself to the editor; most 
of what I write does not. I hope to do a little, now and then, 
to further your success in letters. I wish you were different 
(and that is the harshest criticism that I ever uttered of 
you except to yourself) and wish it for your sake more than 
for mine. I am older than you and pjobably more "ac- 
quainted with grief" — the grief of disappointment and 
disillusion. If in the future you are convinced that you have 
become different, and I am still living, my welcoming hand 
awaits you. And when I forgive I forgive all over, even the 
new offence. 



204 ^^^ Letters of Ambrose Bierce 

Miller undoubtedly is sincere in his praise of you, for with 
all his faults and follies he is always generous and usually 
over generous to other poets. There's nothing little and 
mean in him. Sing ho for Joaquin! 

&^ &^ &D» 

If I "made you famous" please remember that you were 
guilty of contributory negligence by meriting the fame. 
"Eternal vigilance" is the price of its permanence. Don't 
loaf on your job. ^^^ 

I have told her of a certain " enchanted forest " hereabout 
to which I feel myself sometimes strongly drawn as a fitting 
place to lay down "my weary body and my head." (Per- 
haps you remember your Swinburne: 

"Ah yet, would God this flesh of mine might be 
Where air might wash and long leaves cover me! 
Ah yet, would God that roots and stems were bred 
Out of my weary body and my head.") 

The element of enchantment in that forest is supplied by 
my wandering and dreaming in it forty-one years ago when 
I was a-soldiering and there were new things under a new 
sun. It is miles away, but from a near-by summit I can 
overlook the entire region — ridge beyond ridge, parted by 
purple valleys full of sleep. Unlike me, it has not visibly 
altered in all these years, except that I miss, here and there, 
a thin blue ghost of smoke from an enemy's camp. Can you 
guess my feelings when I view this Dream-land — my 
Realm of Adventure, inhabited by memories that beckon 
me from every valley? I shall go; I shall retrace my old 
routes and lines of march; stand in my old camps; inspect 
my battlefields to see that all is right and undisturbed. I 
shall go to the Enchanted Forest. 



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